When We Were Invincible
by PineappleApproves
Summary: Before strapping swords to their backs and slaying monsters for pay, witchers were once children. Children with dreams, ambitions, and love. In the School of Bear, three boys are the only ones in their group to survive the Trial of Grasses. What ensues is a binding, steadfast friendship. They became brothers, living in the days when they thought the world could do them no wrong.
1. Chapter 1 - Best of the Best

_**Author's Notes: I thought it was all over when I finished my other Witcher story, and you probably did too. But oh no, buddy, it ain't. Strap yourselves in, because here comes another.**_

 _ **This story is going to have a drastically different tone than the other story in that it is much less tragic (though there will be some pretty sad parts), and mostly is light-hearted and humorous. This is mainly a story of kids being kids, after all. Well, witcher kids. There isn't really going to be an overarching plot, just a bunch of snapshots of our three little protagonists growing up.**_

 _ **I also became incredibly fascinated by the School of Bear. Incidentally, there is very little source material on Bear, and I can hazard a guess why. CD Projekt created many witcher schools in the Witcher game universe and, like a parent with multiple children, they had their favorite. And it wasn't Bear, hun. So I claim Bear unofficially, and whatever I say becomes not-so-canon!**_

 _ **That being said, enjoy the story! Feel free to provide any kind of feedback!**_

* * *

They were up on that cliff at this very moment. And on that cliff they would stay until the sun had risen and set five times. That was usually how long it took for them to determine which ones had succeeded.

The grandmaster had seen them off as they left the walls of the school to travel to the corner of the isle where the camp was. It took about a day's travel to reach it. The narrow cliff in which the camp was located stretched from the body of the isle to far out into the sea, as if that bit of land had tried to pull itself free but never quite could. And it was there that the alchemists and elder witchers took the young apprentices to undergo the ultimate test. A stocky horse at the head of the band pulled a cart and the sealed cauldron within.

It was a strict policy that the grandmaster was never to go to the cliff and witness the events there. He was never sure why. Perhaps it was to keep the grandmaster within the walls where the school needed him most. There were still students to teach, after all. Or maybe, he suspected, it was so that the grandmaster's faith would be preserved. He recalled something an elder witcher had confessed to him in secret—that nothing was more harrowing than watching the Trial of the Grasses.

And yet nothing was more necessary.

How fitting, then, was it that the Trials partook on that cliff? Tradition had deemed the location of the camp, but surely the founders of the School of Bear had chosen that steep, isolated cliff for particular reasons. One of them being that it made the camp surrounded by the roaring, crashing waters. The bodies of the failures were never brought back.

But enough with these gloomy thoughts. Grandmaster Undevar had a school to run. It was nearly dawn, so it was time for the morning horn to bring the students out of bed. Today marked their seventh day of Sign training. That, along with meditation, was something that the students of this guild often had trouble with. Yet without the Signs, one could not truly be a witcher.

Once again, progress was slow. That was to be expected. Grandmaster Undevar had dismissed the students to their first and only break of the day when the envoy arrived. He notified Undevar that the Trial party was on their way back with the successes. The grandmaster pondered quietly to himself for a moment, and then went to notify the students that the day's training was canceled. He went to the wall and restlessly waited.

An hour had passed when he finally spotted figures in the distance. Eagerly, Undevar studied the oncoming precession, trying to count how many had survived. As they drew closer, he saw… three.

Three? Only three? Undevar felt his spirits drop a little, but fought to remind himself that he should count himself lucky that any had survived at all. He thought back to a few years back when he had met with the grandmasters of the Schools of Wolf and Griffin. They had briefly talked about the mortality rate of the Trial. Three in ten was the usual success rate.

Five days prior, he had sent 25 boys to the cliff.

 _Bear only takes in the strongest_ , Undevar reminded himself. His guild's concoction was far deadlier than that of the other schools, but they produced the most fantastic results. Because of this, they were the smallest guild. But here, on this small isle in Skellige territory, the best witchers were crafted.

When the party arrived at the wall, Undevar stopped them briefly to study the three remaining apprentices. They were pale and looked sickly, their bodies desperately trying to recover. Still, Undevar could already see strength cultivating in their tiny bodies and in their hooded, slitted eyes.

One had fiery hair, which his eyes now matched. Undevar remembered this one well—he had been the mouthiest apprentice in the batch. The second had handsome golden hair, but now it was matted and stuck to his sweaty neck. The last was a black-haired boy who seemed the most aware. As Undevar looked at him, the boy stared back. Finally, the grandmaster raised a hand and beckoned the party to continue.

"Take them to the infirmary," he ordered. "Their training starts tomorrow."

* * *

It is in the nature of humans to be drawn to each other after experiencing a traumatic event together. In doing so, they subtly support and comfort one another. Connections are formed. Camaraderie is born.

So it was only natural that those three boys quickly became the closest of friends.

That night in the infirmary was the first time they truly became aware of each other's existence. Before the Trial of Grasses, the master witchers did not allow the apprentices to interact too often with one another. Most of them, after all, would not be returning from the cliff.

The next morning, Grandmaster Undevar came in to wake them. He asked them for their names, the first time he had done so since they had come to the school. Oslan was the name of the fair, golden-haired boy. And the red-haired boy boomed out his name: Andryk.

The last boy didn't answer when his named was asked. Usually, this form of disrespect, especially towards the grandmaster, was severely punished. However, Undevar was a patient man—a trait that was rare in the School of Bear.

"When a master requests something from you, you will deliver without hesitation," Undevar told the black-haired boy. "Tell me your name."

Again, the boy stared at his lap without answering.

"Wh'as the matter with ye?" Andryk blurted out, his voice sporting a particularly heavy Skelligan accent. "Just tell 'im yer name!"

"And you," Undevar said sharply to the red-haired boy. "You will only speak when addressed." Andryk opened his mouth to retort when suddenly there was a quiet voice.

"They threw them off the cliff." It was the black-haired boy. He was now looking straight at the grandmaster. "The other boys died, and they threw the bodies over the edge."

If that boy had witnessed that, it meant that he had fought against the pain of the Grasses and stayed conscious for hours. Undevar was impressed. Before he could reply, Andryk proudly boasted, "It means we're the best o'the best!" He was promptly shushed by Oslan.

"Those who are not strong enough to overcome the Trial are returned to the tides," Undevar answered.

The black-haired boy looked back down. "This place is awful," he muttered.

The grandmaster leaned towards him. "Did I hear weakness coming from your mouth, boy?" Undevar demanded. Oslan and Andryk shot nervous glances towards the black-haired child.

"No, Grandmaster."

"Then lift your head up. No witcher of the Bear guild keeps his face lowered and his eyes downcast like some shamed bairn."

The boy raised his head, looking into Undevar's eyes. "Now give me your name."

"Kozin."

* * *

"It's going to be this long!" Andryk claimed, holding his hands to just below his torso. "A right muckle o'a beard, it'll be!"

Oslan watched, amused. The fork in his hand hovered over the plate of half-finished food. "How're you going to fight properly with that big ol'bushel hanging off your face like that?" he challenged.

"Grandmaster Undevar manages jus' fine with his, don't he?"

"Yeah, but he keeps it tidy with those braids and gold clamps," Oslan countered. He jabbed a finger towards Andryk. "Not like you with that mop on your head."

Andryk reached up and ran a hand through his unkempt orange hair. "Oi, a _real_ man keeps 'is mane free like the wind, y'hear? Not like ye ninnies with yer hair dun up like that." Oslan's hair was in a short braid, and Kozin's was pulled back in a ponytail.

"So I suppose a real man enjoys fighting with hair in his eyes?" Kozin said slyly as he picked apart the slab of fish in front of him. Suddenly, he spotted someone entering the dining hall. It was one of the master witchers. Automatically, the three jumped to their feet to greet the elder. However, the master barely noticed them as he marched right past, a grave look on his face. Kozin spied a letter in his hand.

When the master disappeared, the boys sat back down. "Did you see that?" Oslan asked them in a hushed voice. "That letter was sealed with the royal crest. I reckon that letter came from His Majesty himself."

A letter from the king of Skellige? Kozin wasn't exactly sure who the king was. The School of Bear, on its tiny island, was relatively isolated from the rest of the nation. As far as he knew, they only interacted with the outside world when taking in boys or accepting donations.

Andryk shrugged. "Not our business," he said, and he was right. That kind of thing was handled by Grandmaster Undevar. Their only concern was training. And sneaking out after hours to wrestle on the rocky beach. And seeing who could catch the biggest fish, even though Andryk and Oslan swore Kozin's uncontested record was due to the fact that his fishing pole was probably enchanted or something.

* * *

As there were no other inhabitants besides those of the School, the island bore an all-male population. Kozin, Oslan, and Andryk reached and passed their adolescent years. No longer were they considered children. They were men—albeit rather young and inexperienced ones. It was a tradition among the Bear guild that boys, upon standing on the brink of manhood, down their first tankards of lager.

Kozin and Oslan had never really showed any real interest towards alcohol, but Andryk was just about ready to jump out his trousers at the sight of the tankards.

"It is said a man can't grow a beard proper without some fire in his belly," Master Brimir told them. Sitting around them were the other masters and older students, cups of ale and mead and other drinks in their hands as they curiously watched the boys. Only the Grandmaster was absent from this little celebration. He had been terribly busy as of late. Even Kozin had seen little of the grandmaster; the two of them had become quite close. His absence disappointed Kozin a little, but the boy didn't take it much to heart. Honestly, this little occasion was really just an excuse for the older witchers to break out the alcohol and drink themselves stupid.

"Go on, lads!"

The three took the tankards and raised them. They stared at each other while trying to come up with something to toast. The silence stretched excruciatingly long.

"To teats!" a fairly intoxicated student called out. He spread his arms out. "May we all be graced with the finest Skellige—and the world—has to offer!" There were a few chuckles and many strong 'aye's. Everyone raised their drinks to join in the toast, save for a few prudish masters.

Shouts of joy erupted as the cups and tankards were harshly rammed together. Plenty of liquid sloshed onto the table. The men threw their heads back as they downed their drinks. The three boys quickly followed.

Almost immediately, Andryk lurched forward and sprayed the lager from his mouth. Kozin and Oslan lowered their tankards and struggled to contain their laughter as they fought down their mouthfuls of beer. It didn't help that everyone at the table was roaring with hysteria.

"A delicate maiden, this one!" a student cried.

"Aye! You blew that lager like a breaching whale!" Kozin sneered. Andryk glared at him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Shut it!" he snapped. "It jus' went down wrong, is all!"

"'Course it did, Addie."

"Why don't ye try?" Andryk challenged. "Show me how it's done!"

Kozin smirked as he swiped his tankard back up. "Watch and learn from a _real_ master!" he crowed, oblivious to the wicked glint in his friend's eyes. He leaned back, holding the tankard with both hands. As he did, Andryk elbowed Oslan. Suddenly, the two boys reached out and smacked Kozin's tankard upward. The jolt caused the rest of the lager to splatter all over his face. As Kozin coughed and shook the beer from his hair, the two boys burst out laughing.

Kozin rose to his feet, eyes flashing and liquid dripping from his chin. "You're dead!" he shouted to the both of them as he cracked his tankard on the ground. Oslan and Andryk stood up too.

"Bring it, big man!" they taunted before being tackled to the ground. The cheers and shouts from the others tripled in volume. The fight spurred the crowd into an energetic frenzy. Many jumped to their feet. A wooden table was flung and smashed into the wall, causing a decorative shield to fall and clatter noisily on the ground.

Kneeling in his study, Grandmaster Undevar opened his eyes as the books on his shelf rattled.


	2. Chapter 2 - Where Family Is

_**AN: Thanks to ASDFGHJKLZX for correcting me about the other witcher schools. They were created by CD Projekt, not Sapkowski. Now I feel dumb, but that's nothing new.**_

 _ **And thanks, MaRAGhOUL, for your review. Good to have you back :)**_

* * *

It was still very early, and the sun hadn't yet risen. Now was the perfect time of day. The salty ocean breeze was gentle, and rhythmic crashing of waves on the rocks provided the perfect atmosphere to meditate to. Because of this, Undevar found no trouble in falling into a peaceful state of mind. His companion, however, did not share his ease. Undevar could feel the shifting of the sand as the boy next to him fidgeted.

The grandmaster ignored the boy's restlessness and focused on the sound of the water as he measured his breaths. But after a while, he realized the squirming had not stopped.

"Of all my students, past and present, none have been able to master the stillness of meditation as well as you have," Undevar said aloud. "What has brought about this spell of unease, Kozin?"

There was a pause. "I had a dream. It's been bothering me."

 _Ah_. The boy was now fifteen, well into manhood by Skelligan standards. But he was still very young and mostly likely… well, confused about a few things. Undevar silently deemed it best not to delve too deeply into the young man's 'bothersome' dream. "If you're having trouble, then I suggest you return to basics. Count your breaths. And should your mind wander, start over."

In the next span of silence, Undevar listened to Kozin's firm, forceful breaths. It was made very clear to him that the boy was not going to relax any time soon. Undevar opened his eyes. He spied the first hints of light creeping up from the horizon. "Is there something you would like to talk about?" Though he cared about Kozin's mental health, part of him hoped the boy would keep to himself. Undevar was not quite willing to breach the topic on certain things.

"I dreamed my mother was sick," Kozin said quietly.

This took Undevar by surprise. Kozin had not seen his mother since arriving on the island. She'd struggled to raise him on her own, but realized that she would not be able to keep his belly full. The orphanage was too overburdened to accept him, so she turned to what she thought was the next best alternative. Undevar had gladly accepted the boy, but he did not have the heart to tell her the truth—that she'd handed him over to what was likely his death. He knew the woman only meant well.

"Do you think she misses me?"

The boy's thoughts were becoming dangerous. "Kozin," Undevar said sternly, "You must tell yourself that your mother no longer exists. Your only family is here on this island. Here is where you are accepted. Remember that."

Kozin dipped his head respectfully. "Yes, Grandmaster." There was a certain look in his youthful eyes that made Undevar a little suspicious. However, the grandmaster dismissed his doubt. Kozin was a smart lad. He'd understand.

Undevar was wrong.

A few nights later, the grandmaster was awoken by the urgent voices of the masters as they approached his room. He had already gotten up by the time they knocked on his door. A student, they told him, had taken one of the boats and sailed out. Undevar followed them to the docks. There were already two people waiting for them there—two young boys. The moment Undevar saw them, he knew what had happened.

"How long has he been gone?" the grandmaster asked them.

"About 20 minutes," Oslan answered. He looked up at Undevar with frantic eyes. "We tried to stop him, Grandmaster, but he wouldn't listen!"

Well, Oslan had probably tried. If Undevar knew Andryk at all, he'd guess the little troublemaker had probably egged Kozin on. "Go back to your beds and do not leave them," he ordered. He and another master quickly boarded a boat.

"But—."

"To bed!" Undevar barked. "And gods help you if I hear that any of you were out and about in my absence!"

The sail was lowered and the boat was untethered. Undevar sat at the tiller, steering the boat through the dark waters. The other witcher, Master Brimir, sat with a crossbow poised on his lap, his eyes scanning for sirens and other water-dwelling monsters.

 _Curses, I should have seen this coming!_ Undevar thought irately to himself. _Should've seen it from a mile away when he started talking about her!_ _How did I let this happen?_ Kozin had gone to Faroe, the island on which he had been born. He was going to find his mother.

Though the boy had a head start, his sailing skills were still that of a novice's. Undevar was certain that he was closing the distance between them. He only hoped he would catch up in time. Kozin didn't know, but the relationship between the school and the rest of Skellige was currently very tense. Now was not a good time for a Bear witcher to be seen outside the island. As soon as they hit land, the grandmaster's feet were in motion.

In the village, Undevar neared the house where Kozin's mother lived. He heard a shrill scream and hurried. There were crashes, scrambling, and thuds coming from within.

"Ma, please!" he heard a voice plead. "It's me!"

"Help! _Help!_ " another voice shrieked. "Get away from me!"

Undevar shoved the door open. There the young man was, standing a short distance away from a cowering woman holding a large shard of broken glass. There was a knife on the ground, its edge rimmed in red. Kozin's neck was covered in blood.

"It's me!" the boy was begging, his voice shaking. "It's your Kozin! Ma, don't you remember me?" He took a step towards her. The panicked woman swiped at him with the shard. He jumped back.

"Don't you get any closer!" she yelped. "I'll gut you, you demon!"

Undevar didn't wait any longer. He marched straight over to the boy and grabbed his arm. Kozin glanced up with shock. "Grand—." Undevar yanked him away from the terrified woman. He dragged Kozin out of the house, his face tense with silent fury. When they were out of the small village and close to the shore, the grandmaster let loose his rage.

"Idiot, _idiot_ child!" Undevar boomed. "Nothing in that space between your ears! What did you think would happen? Absolutely disgraceful! Pitiful! When we get back, you'll—." His angry words were cut short when he looked back.

He had never seen this before. Kozin was crying.

Immediately, the grandmaster's face softened. He let go of the boy's arm and crouched in front of him. "Hey," he said. "Hey there, laddie. You stop that now. There's naught to be grieving about." He turned Kozin's face to the side to look at the knife wound. That entire side of his neck was slick, and the red stained his shirt collar. Pulling the pelt cloak from his shoulders, Undevar wiped the blood away. "Bleeds like a river, but the wound isn't too deep. By dawn, it'll heal. I have medicine back at the boat."

The sail back was made in silence. Undevar and Kozin were in one boat, and Master Brimir was in the one that Kozin had taken. The grandmaster noticed the boy's sad gaze as he stared over the edge of the boat. He reclined into his own thoughts.

He understood why Kozin did what he did. There was not a single child in the world that wouldn't run back for their mother. At the same time, he thought he would be able to fill that void. He thought he had been enough. Obviously not, and though Undevar would never admit it to any soul, that hurt him a little.

"What happened on Faroe will remain a secret, so should you wish," Undevar said aloud as their boat drew near the island. "I will not speak a word." Kozin looked at him, but the grandmaster was busy maneuvering the boat into the dock. The tethering line was secured and the sail was tied up. As Undevar helped Kozin out of the boat, he told him, "Remember, here is where your family is."

The moment Kozin stepped into the sleeping quarters, two heads popped from their pillows.

"Look, Os! The dobber's back!"

Oslan and Andryk scurried out of their beds and latched onto Kozin with overbearing hugs.

"What's with you two?" he said in a startled whisper, though deep down he was genuinely touched. He tried to save face by pushing them away.

"We thought you were gone for good!" Andryk said.

"What? How?"

"We were certain you'd dash yourself on the rocks!" Oslan explained. Slyly, he added, "You know, 'cause you're right awfy at sailing them boats."

Kozin punched him on the arm. "Piss off!"

"No really, we're glad you're back. Grandmaster Undevar told us to stay in bed, but Addie and I couldn't get a wink, thinking the drowners were picking out your eyes."

"Dun say it like that, Os! Yer gonna make me boak!"

Kozin couldn't help but laugh. What happened at Faroe seemed miles behind him now. Undevar was right. Here was where his true family was.

* * *

For the next three years, the boys continued their training. On the sparring grounds, the masters relentlessly honed the boys' combat skills with swords, fists, crossbows, and Signs. They learned the fighting style of their guild—ruthlessly offensive, trading speed and agility for harder strikes. Within the alchemy labs, they were taught how to mix strong, toxic potions that would heighten certain abilities. In the study hall, they strenuously pored over detailed bestiaries written by the grandmaster himself. Kozin and Oslan took turns slapping Andryk awake while they studied.

One day, they were told that it was time for the second phase of their physical training. The news was brought to them by Master Galon, the largest, bulkiest witcher master on the island. He was also the school's undisputed drinking champion—the man could hold his alcohol like one of the cellar barrels.

Andryk groaned loudly as they followed the master. "Not that again!" Kozin had to agree. He wasn't too keen on returning to the days when they had to pace back and forth on rocky, jagged slopes with metal weights. All though it did wonders to their strength and physique, Kozin recalled how it felt like dying, being on fire, and having every bone broken in his body all at the same time. Indeed, he wasn't too keen.

"Nay, this trainin's different," Master Galon told them. "This'll _really_ make ye Bear witchers. Buckle up yer breeches, lads. Today, ye three start conditionin' yer pain endurance."

There was a silence. "There's a feeling in my gut that's telling me this is going to be worse," Oslan said tentatively.

"Aye, a hundred times worse!" Master Galon agreed cheerfully. He led them to a room that was sealed by a thick metal door. The three boys eyed the door nervously. It looked like something that belonged in a high-security prison, or a torture room. "Ease up yer gazes!" Master Galon assured as he unbolted the door and dragged it open. "Ye'll go in as timid bairns and come out as men!"

"But why is the bolt outwith the door?" Andryk demanded.

"Don't ask too many questions," Master Galon quickly replied. He swept a giant hand towards the doorway. "In ye go! No dallyin', now!"

The room inside was completely made of stone. Aside from a few torches and the door, there was nothing on the walls. There was barely enough room for a horse to be able to turn around. Master Galon closed the door behind them and lit the torches with Igni. Running through the center of the room from one wall to another was a metal bar, just high enough to be reached with outstretched arms.

"This _is_ a torture chamber!" Andryk gasped.

"More o'less," Master Galon said. "Y'see, yer body's made o'meat, and meat is quite soft. Soft means pain, and that pain'll cripple ye faster than a clyped toe, it will." The old witcher chuckled to himself. Then, he continued, "Ye ever hear o'Brynjar the Boulder, lads? One o'the most legendary Skelligan witchers to walk this world. Why, I'd wager the bards still sing o'him. Brynjar devoted his life to conditionin' his body to withstand pain. He did it by subjectin' himself to it over and over again, 'til his body became hard as a boulder! Legends say that one day, he was up against a goliath of a cockatrice, thrice the size o'a normal one, when the ragin' beast tore the witcher's arm clean off! Brynjar didn't react, and kept slashing with his remainin' arm as though nothing had happened. Within the next moment, the beast lay bleedin' at his feet!" Proudly, Master Galon crossed his arms and puffed out his chest. "That's why we put our students through this sort o'trainin'. Any other witcher from any o'them wee schools would've died from just the shock alone! But thanks to his trainin', Brynjar hardly felt a thing!"

"What a load of mince," Kozin mumbled under his breath. Suddenly, he felt Master Galon's enormous hand seize his shoulder. He was yanked to the center of the room, right underneath the bar.

"Good lad!" Master Galon praised loudly. "Did I hear you volunteer first?"

"He did," Andryk agreed quickly.

"I heard it too," Oslan chimed in.

Kozin shot seething glares at the both of them, and they returned with innocent smiles. Master Galon instructed him to remove his shirt, and he did. Steering the boy by the shoulders to face his friends, the master began, "The whole body's got to be conditioned, well… save for a few areas. There are spots we have to especially focus on. Man's universal weak points." He tapped Kozin's abdomen. "Ye got no bone here, just a whole bunch o'flesh." He then pointed to Kozin's sides. "Ye got ribs here, but it hurts 'specially bad if yer foe lands a good one on them." He continued to point out vulnerable spots on Kozin's body. "And conditionin' hardens the muscles, gives ye an extra layer of armor." More mince, but Kozin wasn't about to make the mistake of saying that out loud again.

Master Galon grabbed both of Kozin's wrists and raised his hands to the bar. "Hold on there," he instructed. "And whatever ye do, don't ye be lettin' go."

"What happens if I do?"

"Then we start yer session over, right back to the beginnin'. Now, the day's gettin' old, and so are we, so it's time to start."

Kozin's eyes were wide. "Are you going to hit me?"

"Me?" Master Galon roared with laughter. "Nay, lad! Yer not ready for the likes o'me, yet! If I had a go, I'd likely kill ye!" He beckoned Andryk and Oslan over. "These two lads'll help ye out."

 _Fuck_. To be honest, Kozin thought it would be better if Master Galon was the one 'conditioning' him, judging by the cheeky grins on the two boys' faces.

"Sorry, Ko," Oslan apologized, though his expression was anything but remorseful. "We'd go easy on you, but this is for your own good."

"Piss off," Kozin grumbled. "Just remember that whatever you do to me, I'll return tenfo—." The first hit silenced him. He couldn't tell who landed the first strike, but it had been a well-placed hit. Kozin cried out in pain through gritted teeth, his vision growing fuzzy. _Don't let go of the bar_ , was the only other thought swimming in his head.

"That's braw, lad! I'm impressed!" Master Golan's voice sounded far away. "Most let go with the first hit." Kozin didn't exactly share in the master's delight. He hardly had enough time to steel himself for the next hit. And the next. And the one after. His hands squeezed the bar, knuckles white.

After a while, Oslan paused and put a hand over Andryk's arm. "Master Galon, isn't that enough for one session? Ko looks like he's about to be sick."

"If we stopped every time the lad went a little green in the face, we'd be trainin' him for a lifetime and a half," Master Galon replied. He took another glance at Kozin's shaking body, and then shrugged. "But this is yer first go, and ye didn't let go o'the bar, so I suppose ya earned a break."

"Hold on," Andryk said. "Ye says we need to focus on the weak points. What about that one?" He pointed at Kozin's crotch. Kozin's heart skipped a beat from terror.

"Are you outta your mind?" he croaked.

"Now, now, lad," Master Galon said. "Toughen yerself up. Pain is pain, now aren't it?" Kozin turned ghostly white. At the sight of the boy's face, Master Galon let out an ear-splitting bellow of laughter. "Don't flap, I'm just messin' with ya!" He turned to Andryk. "Sure, the monsters out there don't give a second thought to where they'll nip ye, but even the Bear guild knows there's a line that ought not to be crossed. That bein' said, if we got rid o'a man's feelin' down there, his life would hardly be worth livin', now would it?"

"Besides, why are you so eager to go for my loins, Addie?" Kozin taunted.

"Because this." He saw the cruel, sadistic flash in Andryk's eyes before feeling a shin collide harshly with his family jewels.

Kozin made no sound, save for the loud thump of him collapsing to the ground like a dropped sack. He curled on the ground, his arms clamped between his thighs.

Oslan glared at Andryk. "That was a dirty shot," he chided. Still, the corners of the Oslan's mouth twitched in a poorly suppressed grin.

"'Twas, aye," Master Galon agreed. "But even I must say that was a proper kick. Look at the poor thing, curled up like a cooked shrimp!"

"Oi, he let go o'the bars," Andryk pointed out.

"We'll not be countin' that," Master Galon said. He stood over Kozin. "'Hoy there, lad. I know that kind o'pain's nothing to spit at, but don't ye go cowkin' yer breakfast over me boots now."

"Bl-bl-bl," Kozin stammered, struggling to speak. "You bl-bleedin' whoreson, Addie! When it's y-your turn, I'll wallap you 'til your insides are n-n-nothing but pulp, y'hear?"

Master Galon stooped down and pulled Kozin up. "That's the spirit! Come on, then! Ye heard him, up to the bar now!" Andryk didn't look quite so amused anymore.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Grandmaster, I had a dream that made me feel certain things, and it caused my weewee to drool on the sheets. Explain to me. Explain in excruciating detail.**_

 _ **Also... Brynjar: Listen up, cockatrice. You may be big, but you ain't bad. THE BOULDER'S gonna win this... in a landslide!**_

 _ **Cockatrice: Cockatrice... MAD. *tears off arm***_


	3. Chapter 3 - The Sorceress

For years, the three boys watched the older students undergo rigorous, more advanced training where the masters seemed to take them more seriously. Naturally, they were envious. But, before they knew it, they found themselves at that exact same milestone.

Pain conditioning had been bad, but learning the Signs was exhausting. The students of the guild found it so foreign because it didn't require any physical prowess. But what made it especially tiring was that even with nearly every hour of nearly every day since they started spent on the Signs, Kozin couldn't even light a measly candle or knock back a single leaf. Andryk shared in his struggle.

And then there was Oslan. With an effortless wave of his hand, he sent torrents of fire soaring through the air. His Aard smashed a rock formation to bits. His Quen and Yrden were unmatched, and he could use Axii to make the squirrels line up and race around in circles.

But what truly irked Kozin and Andryk was when Master Roffe praised Oslan every time. "We've got a cannie one," the mage would mutter in his throaty voice. There were no high words spoken towards the other two.

Oslan would turn to his friends' sour faces and flash them his annoyingly striking grin. "Chin up," he'd tell them. "You'll get it eventually." That frustrated them even more. But as much as they hated it when he said that, he was right. Practice didn't exactly lead to perfection, but there was progress. Kozin eventually had a good grip on the Signs, and Andryk managed to catch the tips of Master Roffe's beard on fire.

Then came the day they had all been waiting for—the day they finally faced off against monsters. With silver broadswords strapped to their backs, the three were taken a little ways north from the island to a cay that was rife with monsters; a perfect training ground for budding witchers.

This was a colossal moment for the witchers in the School of Bear. It was a sign that their training was over, that there was nothing left to be learned from the school. They were nearing 20 years of age, the age that saw Bear witchers leave the island and travel the world to pursue their profession in the real world. Experience was the only master that could teach them now.

The cay was typically populated with drowners and other forms of drowned dead. Nekkers were also quite common, though there were really no explanations on how they kept coming back to that isolated cay. There were times noonwraiths and nightwraiths could be found drifting close to the water. On very rare occasions, forktails landed there in search of prey.

Their first few days on the cay went quite smoothly, though they gained their first monster-made wounds that later whitened into scars. They took to the tradition of beheading their kills, bringing them back to stuff and mount over their beds, dreaming of the day when they'd be able to hack off the head of a forktail, basilisk, or something greater.

Today had been no different. They'd spent the day cutting down countless drowners and nekkers. A noonwraith, the third one they'd seen, had been there, too. Unfortunately, they weren't able to take her head. As Kozin sat at the tiller, Oslan and Andryk sat near the bow having a light banter.

"Would've been a beauty on my wall, too!" Oslan was complaining. "You and Ko have got yours! You just _had_ to ruin it, eh?"

"Oi, I saved yer hide!" Andryk snapped back. "Ye couldn't see it with that nekker clingin' to yer head, but that noonwraith was fixin' to slash ye a new one!"

"Then stab it, or hell, lop its head off with a sweep to save me the effort! But no, instead of using the perfectly good weapon in your hands, you used the most valuable part of your body! Why on earth did you think of head-butting her like that?"

"The most valuable part is a little further south," Andryk replied smugly. "A different head, if ye will."

"Naw," Kozin piped up. "Without your bigger head, you wouldn't be able to use your little one, now would you?"

"Fair point."

"But my beautiful noonwraith head!" Oslan sulked. "All smashed and caved in because of your thick skull! I sometimes wonder how a brain even fits in there."

"It's like I always say," Andryk said. "Ye napper's nothin' but a glorified battering ram."

"It is not, you bawheid," Oslan grumbled bitterly.

"If you're so flapped, you can have mi…" Kozin trailed off as they came closer to the island. Something slowly came into view—a ship. It was a large schooner; the elegant threadwork on the sails could be seen even from their boat.

"Now that's a proper gailey!" Oslan gasped as they all gawked at the ship. If there was one thing Skelligan witchers could all unanimously appreciate, it was a good boat.

"Aye," Andryk replied, his hands gripping the edge of the boat as he leaned over the side to get a better view. "Who do ye reckon that is?"

"The king? Or a representative of the crown?" Oslan guessed excitedly.

"Sails ain't got the reigning crest," Andryk pointed out.

"Oh right… Do you think it's someone from the continent?"

"Only one way to find out," Kozin said as they reached the dock. Quickly, the boys scrambled to tie the boat up and raced towards the school. As they passed the school walls, they saw a pair of armored guards. Whoever was here appeared quite important. Suddenly, hand shot out and caught Andryk by the shoulder. The other two stopped as well.

"Haw! Exhibit a smidge of manners, why don't you?" Master Brimir chided. "We've company! Very esteemed company, I might add."

"Who?" the boys demanded eagerly.

"Don't you be leaping out of your breeks now," Master Brimir said. "This doesn't much concern you… or myself, even. She's here to speak with the grandmaster on behalf of the king."

 _"She?"_ They hardly heard anything else.

Master Brimir laughed. "Ah, lads will be lads!" he mused. "But I mean it. On your best behavior, aye? Like I said, this is a very acclaimed guest. Grandmaster Undevar'd be mighty displeased if anyone disrespected her in any way." He shielded his eyes with his hand as he looked up at the sky. "Besides, it's nigh suppertime. You three ought to head over to the dining hall soon."

"What about the guest?" Oslan asked. "Will she be joining us?"

"Nay, I doubt you'll see much of her," Master Brimir answered. "She has business with the grandmaster only." With that, the master turned and headed away. Before he left, Kozin had caught a particular look in Master Brimir's eyes. He seemed worried.

Andryk and Oslan looked at each other. "She has _business_ with the grandmaster?" Andryk repeated.

"What are you thinking?"

"Think she's the grandmaster's hen?"

"Didn't you just hear Master Brimir?" Kozin snapped. "No disrespect."

Andryk looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Not ye too, Ko! I thought Os was the goody-two shoes div."

"You better watch that flapper or I'll have you spitting teeth out of it," Oslan threatened playfully.

They walked together across the yard and into the building, heading down the corridor towards the dining hall. The building was rather empty, as the students that were older than the boys had left the island and would not return until winter. Now, they were among the oldest students in the school for a change. As the three of them rounded the corner, they spotted a pair of younger students loitering by an old tapestry.

"Better get some supper before we empty it all out," Oslan said jokingly to them as they neared. The younger boys gave him friendly smirks and looked as though they were about to reply. But then they froze, their eyes snapping to something behind the three.

Kozin heard a clicking pair of footsteps and turned just as Andryk and Oslan looked over their shoulders. They stopped as well.

Heading down the hall in their direction was a woman who was dressed very lavishly. Her elaborately sewn dress reached up to her collarbones, letting her pale shoulders shine in the flickering torchlight. The hem of her dress swayed around her ankles. The front of the dress's skirt parted like two overlapping flower petals, kicked forward with every authoritative step she took. Her dark ash hair reached down to the small of her back and swung lazily as she walked. And her face… well, coupled with everything else about her, even the aura she seemed to emit, Kozin knew without a doubt that this woman was the most beautiful being he had ever seen.

The witcher students quickly lined their backs along the wall and lowered their heads respectfully as she passed. "Carry on," she told them in a quiet voice.

When the sound of her sharp footsteps finally faded, one of the younger students turned to his companion. "You see the diddies on her?" he remarked. "How many drinks do you think it'd take for that dress to be around her ankles?"

" _Oi!"_ Andryk boomed, causing the two younger boys to jump. "Polish up yer conduct, ye codgers! There's more to a woman than a pair o'paps, y'know!"

"Fack off," the boys said. "We were just haverin'. Didn't mean anything from it." They walked away.

"Didn't think you were a such a gentleman, Addie," Kozin mused.

Andryk crossed his arms and turned his face away. "Am no," he muttered. "I just don't like it when people talk about quines like that. Reminds me o'my da, the pissin' bastart."

"Oh," Kozin replied softly. They hardly talked about their parents. All he knew about Andryk's family was that his mother had died from childbirth, and that he had lived with his father until coming to the school. Regardless, Andryk never talked about him, and Kozin could see why.

"So that's the guest Master Brimir told us about," Oslan said, changing the subject. "That's interesting."

"What? Did you expect some munter or auld granny?" Kozin joked.

"No, I didn't mean that. Could you not tell? That was a sorceress."

"Hmm," Andryk murmured, casting a suspicious glance down the hall. "I knew there was somethin' fishy about the way she looked."

Fishy? That wasn't the word Kozin would use to describe her. More like astonishing. "I'd wager she was heading to the grandmaster's study," he told the other two. "Let's head over."

"How?"

"How no? I want to hear what they're going to talk about."

"More like he wants to see more of that sorceress. Don't look at me like that, Ko. It's true, isn't it?" Oslan teased. Curses, how did he figure that out so easily?

Kozin muttered something unintelligible and quickly hurried down the corridor.

* * *

There was one entire wing that was dedicated to the grandmaster's space. He had his own bedroom, library, study, and even a small, heated pool. Kozin and his friends had often schemed to sneak in and use the pool while the grandmaster was away, but they never found the courage to. Trekking into the wing without permission was riskier than venturing into a bear's den. Undevar was a levelheaded man and a patient teacher, but he never hesitated to deliver harsh justice unto troublemakers.

That's why Oslan and Andryk lagged behind as they crept through the grandmaster's wing. As soon as voices could be heard murmuring from the study, they stopped. Kozin continued.

"Oi, Ko, this is far enough!" Andryk hissed nervously. "We can hear them fine from right here."

Kozin ignored Andryk as he tiptoed closer to the study. Truth be told, Oslan had been completely right. He didn't give a horse's ass what the sorceress had come to talk to the grandmaster about. He just wanted another glimpse of her.

But as he neared the study, the words being spoken from behind the slightly ajar door caught his attention.

"I'm aware of how the rest of the isles view us," Undevar was saying, his voice quiet. Kozin recognized the tightly composed tone in his voice; it was the tone the grandmaster spoke with when he was distressed.

"I'm afraid you don't realize just how grave this has become," a female voice replied. It was the sorceress. "Especially given the latest incident."

"Latest? There was another?"

"Yes. Just a few days ago."

There was a heavy pause. Then, Undevar asked, "Dead now?"

"Yes."

More silence. Kozin heard the grandmaster give a sigh, heavy enough to convey the weight on his old, burdened shoulders. "Perhaps I should talk with the king—."

"No," the sorceress interrupted sternly. "The king is… Negotiation between the two of you is not an option. He was already on the verge of bringing armed men here. It took no short amount of convincing to still his army and allow me to speak with you instead."

"This school and everyone in it means more than anything to me," Undevar replied. "It would shatter me to see it razed to the ground. I thank you."

"It's been so long, and you haven't changed. You are truly a gift to this guild."

"It is too early to praise me. I have not done anything of merit just yet."

"Hmm," the sorceress mused. "I have seen many grandmasters come and go in all the witcher schools. It is quite rare to find a humble one, but I suppose I should have expected nothing else from you."

Undevar didn't respond. Kozin could almost feel his sorrow emanating from within the study. What had been going on? He had been too focused on finishing his training to closely follow news of the outside world. And when he'd train with Undevar, the grandmaster would be cheerful and energetic like he always was. Yet Kozin had a feeling this was the grandmaster with his true feelings out on display.

Then, Kozin felt the mood suddenly change. "Forgive me, Theila," Undevar said. "But we've an uninvited pair of ears." Kozin's stomach dropped. "Come away from the shadows, Kozin. You are a witcher, not some skulking ghoul."

A flurry of options raced through the young man's head. He could make a run for it, but there was no point. And it might worsen the consequences. He could sputter out an excuse, but what justification could he have for trespassing into the grandmaster's wing?

He had taken too long to think. _"Kozin_." The grandmaster's voice became stern. Sheepishly, the young man took one last look back at his petrified friends before stepping through the door of the study. The grandmaster and sorceress were sitting across from one another at Undevar's large desk.

"I apologize for my behavior," Kozin muttered quickly.

"And for underestimating me," Undevar added. "Did you not think I could hear you creeping down the hall? Kozin, you ought to know better."

"Yes, Grandmaster."

"Why are you here?"

"I… I wanted to know what you were talking about." Kozin saw Undevar's mouth curl ever so slightly into the smile that told him, _'I know you're lying.'_ He could hardly hide anything from the grandmaster. Undevar could read people like open books. It was something the grandmaster had been personally teaching him, though it would be long before Kozin could compare.

Thankfully, the sorceress seemed to buy his explanation. "I remember you," she told Kozin with a friendly smile that sent his heart into irregular palpitations. "I admire your youthful curiosity, but this is a private matter between myself and your grandmaster."

"From the sounds of it, it's about something that effects the entire guild. So everyone who is a part of this school should know," Kozin replied instantly. He kept his eyes glued to the sorceress, trying not to think about the frightening glower that Undevar was likely throwing at him.

Instead of being affected by his rudeness, the sorceress directed her amused stare towards Undevar. "If I did not know better about witchers, I'd think he was yours," she mused. Kozin finally risked a peek at the grandmaster. The old witcher's eyes were closed.

Breathing in deeply through his nose, the grandmaster said, "Though his manners need refining, the boy is right. I think it poor to keep secrets from my students, especially ones of this scale. Pull up a chair and sit, Kozin." The young man obeyed, taking the vacant plush seat that was next to the sorceress. Immediately, he was able to identify the flowers she had used in her perfume—violet mallow and freesia.

 _Quit being a creep_ , he chided to himself. It was then he realized that Undevar was in the middle of talking to him.

"—in the School of Bear?" the grandmaster was asking him.

Kozin's mind raced. "Yes, Grandmaster," he answered quickly.

"I did not ask you a yes or no question, Kozin."

"I…" He was sure the grandmaster could see the sweat slowly gathering on his forehead. "I… Could you repeat what you just said, Grandmaster?"

Undevar leaned his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers together. "What have you learned while you have been on this island?" he repeated.

What had he learned? "I've learned how to identify and kill monsters," he said.

"And?"

"And…" Kozin wasn't sure what the grandmaster wanted out of him with this line of questioning. "And magic. I've mastered the Signs that Master Roffe taught me." From the look in Undevar's eyes, it was clear that the grandmaster had not heard what he wanted.

"Kozin, what have _I_ taught you?"

In a second, memories flashed one by one in Kozin's mind as though someone had transferred them onto the pages of a book and flipped through them before his mind's eye. He saw the two of them on the beach, calmly breathing. He saw the grandmaster's outstretched hand, held out to help him back up for another round of sparring. He saw the red rag that Undevar peeled away from his neck as the old witcher reassured him with gentle words. He saw late nights in the grandmaster's library while Undevar recounted old stories of monster huntings, trying to teach the young boy right from wrong with his own mistakes. He saw a father.

"Everything," Kozin said. "What it means to be a witcher—that I have the power to do right by the world."

Undevar rested his interlaced hands against his upper lip and nodded slowly. "And what do you think of my teachings?"

"I think they're true."

"I am honored to hear that," the grandmaster said. "Now imagine everything I have taught you and corrupt it. Inject into it selfishness, hubris, and an unquenchable thirst for glory. That is how the grandmaster before me, former Grandmaster Valdre, ran his school. I learned under him, and I resented what I learned from him. My peers, however, took his teachings to heart, as did the countless students after me. Now the saplings of his work have grown fully, and as fate would have it, the consequences are mine to bear."

"It's not fair," the sorceress muttered quietly.

"When is it, for us? When is it ever, Theila?" Undevar asked her. She didn't answer. The grandmaster continued, "Generations of Bear witchers, Valdre's witchers, have wandered Skellige for work. Mostly, they have carried out their tasks well. But every now and then, one of Valdre's witchers will show their dark side, their twisted upbringing. They become pompous and rash, believing themselves higher than the people they should be serving. And that brashness costs not only them, but also the people who ask for their help. A year ago, one of Valdre's witchers tried to reverse a spell that was placed on a duke's wife and failed. She passed as a result, and the duke refused to pay him for his failure. With his pride angered, the witcher murdered the rest of the duke's household and fled. He was caught a few weeks later, of course, and executed. Shortly after, another of Valdre's witchers accepted a contract, but it wasn't to slay a monster. The target, instead, was the heir to the Skelligan throne. His extravagant promised reward was what convinced him take up the shameful task. Fortunately, he failed, and was also put to death. More and more of these incidents have occurred, and Skellige's opinion of us has grown increasingly bitter. Understandably so," the grandmaster sighed. "I have received no short amount of messages from the king and his envoys. Despite my attempts to explain the situations, his words have recently evolved into threats. Once Skellige revered us as protectors of the land and sea, but now they see us as villains. And I, the greatest one of all."

Undevar was anything but a villain. Kozin was shocked. He hadn't realized that something so awful had been happening outside of their cozy little island. "But what about the witchers who just left?"

"As much as they despise us, the Skelligans know that there is no one else who will come to their aid when a monster terrorizes them, or when dark magic plagues them," Undevar replied. "The young witchers who now depart this island are my last hope. I wish for them to return the School of Bear to its long lost reputation. They are the antidotes that will cast out Valdre's poison."

"I remember the old fool. Never a word of my advice passed through his thick skull," the sorceress recalled sourly.

Undevar had been grandmaster for nearly 50 years. "You must be ancient," Kozin blurted out loud to the sorceress. He meant his words to be respectful, but it had sounded a lot different in his head.

The sorceress looked unamused, but Undevar broke out into a burst of laughter. Upon seeing the old witcher break through his sadness, the sorceress smiled instead.

"Aye," Undevar said gruffly. "I always say witchers age like fine wine, but sorceresses age like embalmed mummies."

"And is that such a bad thing, Undevar?" the sorceress asked, a hint of playfulness in her voice. She shot a sly glance at Kozin. "On my way through the halls, I found myself at the receiving end of quite a few open-mouthed stares." This caused Undevar to let out another hearty chuckle. Kozin smiled faintly, unsure of whether it was in his place to laugh aloud or not. The sorceress gazed at him.

"This one is very much like you," she said to the grandmaster, "especially when he smiles. May that smile bless others for years to come." Finally, the sorceress stood. "It is getting late," she announced. "We'll resume our talk tomorrow… alone, please," she added, glancing at Kozin. "Rest, Undevar. You look like you need it. And you too," she said to Kozin. "I imagine Undevar works you to the bone. You are his hopeful legacy, after all." Without waiting for them to reply, she walked out of the study, her heels clicking on the stone floor. Kozin could hear the mad shuffling of Andryk and Oslan as they hid.

Kozin looked back at the grandmaster. The high note that the conversation had ended on left him looking a little more like himself. "Grandmaster…" he began.

"No more talk of this whole Valdre affair, Kozin," Undevar said. He meant it as an order, but it sounded more like a plea.

"About the sorceress…"

"Ah." Undevar chuckled again. "She needn't a spell to mesmerize you, does she? Sorceresses are like that, aye. Do be careful around them, lad."

"She seemed… Forgive me, grandmaster, but I couldn't help but notice something. You and her are a pair?"

The carefree smile disappeared from the grandmaster's face. "No," he said. "Aye, I respect her, and that is because she is a caster of unmatched prowess. Why would you think that?"

"Just the way she spoke to you."

Undevar grew quiet. Then, he said, "Nostalgia is getting the better of her. She misses the young witcher she met in Ard Skellig, and came here in hopes of finding him again. But I am an old, tired fool now." The grandmaster leaned heavily on his desk, his slit eyes growing distant. "Though I admit sometimes nostalgia is cruel to me as well. I miss those days…" In a barely audible voice, he whispered. "I was invincible."

Then, after a slow blink, the grandmaster continued, "It is late." He did not move as he spoke. "You best be off to bed before the night horn bellows. And take those other eavesdropping brats down the hall with you."

Kozin stood and bowed before taking his leave. As he walked out of the grandmaster's wing, Andryk and Oslan emerged from behind a tapestry. Kozin grinned at them.

"Oi, wipe that shite-guzzling smirk off of yer face!" Andryk hissed.

"But I'm blessing you with it."

The back of Oslan's hand quickly did as Andryk said.


	4. Chapter 4 - Winter's Chill

As Oslan had been born a few years after Andryk, he was the last out of the three to finally reach 20 years of age. The school celebrated his birthday the same, good old fashioned way they celebrated all birthdays—with a feast that nearly drained the cellars dry and resulted in overturned furniture, a few bruises, and throbbing headaches the next day. But while they had been toasting to Oslan's health and successful hunts, the three of them had something else in their mind entirely. It was almost time to leave the island and take the world by storm.

Unfortunately, that fateful day would have to wait. Oslan's birthday was right before winter. Bear witchers who had gone out were now returning before the temperature dropped too low and sealed the docks in ice. The boats were hauled out of the water and left strewn out across the shore like beached whales. A few days later, their wooden surfaces began gathering the first bits of snow.

As they had done every winter, the three young witchers would watch as the returning witchers contributed portions of their earnings to the school. With the prospect of donations completely out of the question, this was all they had left to survive on. Every winter, the amount turned in would be less and less. This year was no different.

Undevar gazed at the small deposit, unable to keep the sadness from his face. Kozin understood his grief; if this trend continued, the Bear guild would wither away. They would be the first witcher school to die. He remembered what he had heard the grandmaster tell Theila, the sorceress: _This school and everyone in it means more than anything to me_.

Kozin heard the grandmaster breath in deeply. "We are strong. We will endure," Undevar assured, though he wasn't speaking to Kozin or anyone else.

A thought came to Kozin. Speaking of the sorceress, who departed about a month ago to report back to the king, she may be the guild's saving grace. According to Undevar, Theila was incredibly powerful. She had been sought out by many near the top of the hierarchical ladder for various reasons. And, of course, the services of an adept magician were not cheap. That and the extravagant clothes she wore during her stay showed that she had more money than she knew what to do with.

But when Kozin told the grandmaster his suggestion, Undevar quickly shot it down. "Theila had the same idea, and was quite persistent in repeatedly reminding me of it while she was here," Undevar said. "But I will not accept a single crown from her. Skellige may turn hostile towards her if it becomes known that she is aiding us. She is to stay neutral." Undevar put an arm around Kozin, grasping his shoulder firmly. "There is no need to worry. We are a very self-sustaining guild. Everything we need is here. Why, I'd wager my beard the other schools don't boast their own brewery like we do."

 _But without the money, that brewery won't have anything to brew,_ Kozin thought.

"Besides," Undevar continued. "These are your last few months, and then you will go off to mark your first footprints on the world. Go enjoy the winter. But before you do…" the grandmaster added as he quickly pulled Kozin back. Undevar stripped the bear pelt cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it over the young man. "… Take care to cover yourself up. It's only going to get colder from here."

On his shoulders, the grandmaster's winter cloak felt heavy. "Yes, Grandmaster."

It only took a few weeks into the winter months for the snow to start falling in swirling torrents. Ice flared out several paces from the shore and crept up the legs of the frozen docks. Even with the windows and doors firmly shut, and with fires crackling in every hearth, winter chilled the air inside the stony walls. Unlike Undevar with his heavy pelts, the Bear witchers preferred a different way to stay warm—a trusty tankard topped with some fiery brew.

Even though it'd been a while, the topic of the sorceress was still in heavy discussion. The older witchers who had been gone during her visit were vexed that they had missed her.

"Yer fresh, complainin' about missin' out on one woman when you had the whole lot of Skellige's women fer flangin'," Andryk grumbled, and took another swig out of his tankard. "We've just been stuck on this bloomin' island fer our whole lives."

One of the witchers chuckled. "Aye, it's mad. There's some quines that'll just throw themselves at you. I met a radge lass who thought bedding a witcher would bring her good fortune."

"And did you flange her?" one of his friends asked.

"You bet your arse. But I bolted right after. She could put a rusalka to shame in the sheets, but the lass was nuttier than squirrel shite."

Kozin groaned and leaned his head on his arm. He was already fairly drunk after plenty of refills to his tankard and really didn't want to hear any of this.

"Cheer up, mates," the older witcher said. "Just a few more months and then you're free to shag to your heart's content. Oh, but don't forget to kill some monsters. Don't let Dadaí Undevar know you've been slacking off."

"Ye dinnae even need t'wait that long," another man slurred, having taken another swig. Immediately, the three witchers raised their heads like dogs having heard the whistle for food.

"Really?"

"Aye, we've got bonnies right near this island!"

Another witcher knocked the one who had spoken with his shoulder. "Don't you go making those jokes here in front of them," he warned. "They'd be fixing to take your word for it."

"But what was he blabberin' about?" Andryk demanded. "Somethin' about lasses by the island?"

"He was just yanking your boot."

Kozin narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his constantly wavering gaze on the older witcher's face. His intoxicated mind came to the most certain conclusion that the witcher was just lying to keep all the women to himself. The bastard! "By god, tell us already!" he snapped, watching the witcher and the world around him sway side to side. "Or I swear I'll give your face another dimension!"

"Simmer down," the older witcher appeased. "This dumbass was just talking about the sirens."

"Sirens?" Andryk repeated incredulously.

Of course! Why hadn't Kozin thought of them sooner? Of course, he'd never seen one in person; they had the good sense not to get too close to the island. But he recalled reading about them in Grandmaster Undevar's bestiaries and seeing their sketches. Their lower bodies were that of a long, scaly creature with pointed fins, but their upper halves resembled alluring young women. Kozin had often found himself spending a little more time than necessary staring at the grandmaster's sketch of a siren perched on a rock, though her long flowing hair conveniently draped over her chest.

"They're sexy as hell, aye, but the moment they open their mouths and let out that awful screech, it reminds you that they're nothing but monsters," a different witcher noted.

"Sirens, bruxae, succubae," another listed. "Why do monster women have to be such bonnies?"

"Water hags?" someone challenged.

His friend lurched and quickly covered his mouth. "Don't go mentioning those things around me," he complained. "Did I ever tell of the time I had to track one of those down? Folks living in a small port started vanishing by the shore, and I could tell it was one of those mingers from the smell alone…" All of the older witchers turned towards the storyteller, leaving the three alone.

Andryk leaned in towards his friends. "Ye heard what he said, aye?"

"About the water hag, you mean?" Oslan asked.

"Nay, about the sirens!"

"Sirens? Oh, aye. But he was just mucking about."

"Really? 'Cause what I heard him say was dead brilliant. Come on, ye dafties," Andryk said, eyeing the two. "Why don't we go find ourselves some sirens?"

Oslan let out a funny noise as he nearly choked on his ale. "Are you ma—?"

"That sounds like a damn good idea!" Kozin praised, slamming down his empty tankard. "Let's go find the sirens!"

Oslan alternated stunned stares between the two. "You're both completely mad!" he hissed. "The two of you are gantin' so hard you've lost your minds!"

"Os, don't be such a huddy!" Kozin protested. He pushed Oslan's tankard closer towards him. "Go on, finish this off. The cold's not letting you think straight."

"That's not nearly enough! Here!" Andryk remarked, tipping the contents of his tankard into Oslan. "There you go, Os! This ought to clear that clarted head of yers right up!"


	5. Chapter 5 - In Search of Sirens

He wasn't sure how far into the night it was when they stumbled out to the shore. He recalled hearing the night horn bellow a little while ago… or had that been an owl? Did owls bellow? Were there even any owls on the island?

"Damn water's completely frozen over!" he heard Andryk growl. The crunch of the boat's tip hitting the ice confirmed the red-haired witcher's words.

Was this it? Was this the end? They had come so far! Gone through so much! On their way to the shore, Kozin was certainly he had nearly tripped to his death about three times… or was it four?

"It's no big deal. Just melt it with Igni," Oslan said, making his way around the boat.

" _Ooooh_. Right."

Oslan's boot slipped on a particularly flat sheet of ice, but he managed to catch himself on the boat's stern. Kozin watched through his hazy vision as Oslan made fiddly motions with his hand. Suddenly, the ice glowed, but it wasn't from fire. A ring of purple runes appeared.

"Oops," Oslan slurred. After his friends' encouragement, he had gone quite past his limit with the ale. "That wasn't it. Which one was Igni again?" There were more unsuccessful fiddly motions.

It took a while, but they eventually managed to melt through enough of the ice to push the boat into the slurry water. Andryk and Oslan grabbed the sides of the boat as Kozin, who had pushed the rest of the boat into the water, hauled himself in with the least amount of grace, causing the vessel to rock wildly.

"We all set?" Kozin muttered groggily as he hoisted himself up into a sitting position. Andryk pulled the sail down. It fell against the mast, and then gently billowed as it caught a weak breeze. Little ripples trailed behind the boat as it began to slowly move away from the shore. Kozin had one hand on the tiller, the other bunching Undevar's coat tightly against his neck. It was a brutally cold night, though the alcohol in their bodies numbed them from some of the chilliness. Kozin watched as the view of his friends sitting in front of him was occasionally muddled by the white puff of his breathing.

"Head north," he heard Oslan say. "That'll take us towards Hindarsfiall."

"Aye, sirens like bein' near places where commonfolk are," Andryk agreed in a garbled voice. "Makes grabbin' meat nice an' easy."

Kozin tilted the tiller, watching the needle of the boat's compass rest over the red 'N.' When he had the boat heading north, he locked the tiller and sat back. As they sailed quietly through the dark water, a thought suddenly came to him.

"What are we going to do when we find them?" Kozin asked. "We left our weapons back in the school."

"We haven't come all this way jus' te kill 'em," Andryk said, slumped against the side of the boat with his hands crossed over his stomach.

"You still clinging to that mad idea of yours?" Oslan said.

"Kozin agreed with me. It's a roarin' idea."

"It is."

"But we can't… Have you forgotten what sirens are like?" Oslan argued. "They're monsters. They haven't got a woman's lower body."

"They still got mouths, don't they?"

"Filled with fangs. Sirens feast on men's flesh, remember?"

"I don't see any problem with that."

"What's the matter, Os?" Kozin interjected upon seeing Oslan's defeated look. "It's almost like you don't want to go looking for sirens. You swinging away from lasses or something?"

"No," Oslan grumbled. "But I prefer my lasses normal and _not_ monsters."

"Normal lasses are just so plain," Kozin confessed loudly. "They're not like sor—." He quickly shut himself up.

"Sorceresses?" Oslan finished, eyeing him with a wide grin. "I knew it. You silly codger."

"Oi, you can't blame me," Kozin slurred. "They're bleeding gorgeous."

Andryk scoffed. "It's magic, all o'it," he said. "Most of them are hoora old grans. They use crazy spells an' enchantments to tuck away all their age an' blemishes. Otherwise their tits'd be swingin' by their knees like a water hag's."

Even if Kozin hadn't been so drunk, he still wouldn't have been able to compare a sorceress like Theila to a water hag. And he wasn't too pleased at Andryk's attack on her. "You're just too blootered right now to appreciate a proper woman."

"Don't ye be talkin' to me 'bout proper lasses," Andryk slurred heavily, sitting up and leaning towards Kozin. His clumsy movements caused the boat to sway. "A proper lass has got meat on her bones. Thank whatever poofs are hangin' around up in the sky we were born in Skellige, where the women can take punches and deal them right."

"Or the ones that can fly around and have scaly bodies?" Kozin sneered.

Andryk shot up to his feet. Kozin's trained combat reflexes, though muddled by the alcohol in his body, led him to stand too. "Ye wan'te have a square go?" Andryk challenged. "I'll clobber ye right here on the water!"

Oslan, sitting between them, was gripping the side of the boat tightly with one hand. His other was clamped tightly over his mouth as the boat rocked heavily from the two witchers' movements. Finally, he managed to loosen his hand enough to weakly mumble, "Quit fidgeting the boat about. I'm fixing to loosen my stomach."

Neither of them heard Oslan, as they were too busy with their testosterone- and ale-fueled debate. "Yeah, I wanna go!" Kozin retorted, wavering as he tried to keep his balance. The movement of the boat and the wind in his eyes wasn't helping when he was already disoriented enough. Still, he was absolutely certain he could take the moron on. "I'll skelp you right in the nose!" To be honest, he could hardly tell where Andryk's nose, or his face, even was.

"Then let's go!" Andryk roared. He lunged forward just as Kozin did, but all they did was bump clumsily into the other and fall in opposite directions. Andryk landed on the floor of the boat, and Kozin fell against the bow. The boat shuddered heavily. And then it lurched again as Oslan threw his face over the side and hurled into the water.

"Weak," Kozin and Andryk muttered in unison.

Oslan lifted his head to complain, but quickly ducked it down again when he realized he wasn't finished. Leaning on the bow, Kozin spotted a dark shape looming in the horizon. "Mates, we're almost at Hindarsfiall. I see it right there!" Well, he was pretty sure that was it at least. The wind was still in his eyes, and his lids were beginning to feel awfully heavy.

"What?" Andryk exclaimed, still lying on the floor. "We're already here? Ye see any sirens?"

Kozin scanned the skies with his squinted eyes, but saw nothing. "Sky's as bare as the sea," he reported.

"Fuckin' hell! Where are all the sirens?"

"I bet Os scared them off with all his cowking," Kozin joked.

"Dammit, Os! I swear I'm gonna throw ye overboard!" Andryk was still lying face down in the boat. To Kozin, he ordered, "Tie up the sail and let us drift. Maybe if we sit still, they'll stop by for a visit."

"Right, right." Kozin stumbled onto his feet and messily tied the sail up. Maybe the sirens were shy! Or the flapping of the sail was driving them off. Either way, he was sure it wouldn't be long before the three of them end up with a pretty lady or two. "There's no way they'll be able to resist a boatful of us braw lads," he said aloud to the others.

"Aye, we're like a basket of goodies te them!" Andryk agreed from the bottom of the boat. None of them were aware of the irony. "Anyway, the two of ye keep an eye out while I go for a kip. Cold's weighin' me down like a sleeping draught."

"Oi, we're tired too!" Oslan rebutted. "If we stay out here any longer, we're gonna freeze our knobs off."

"Wait yer turn," Andryk mumbled, and in record-breaking time was immediately out.

"Guess we look for sirens," Kozin said as he sat back and tilted his head up, staring groggily into the air. "How about I watch the skies and you watch the water?"

"Sure thing," Oslan agreed, leaning his chin on the rim of the boat. "Let's give Addie ten minutes, and then he's taking over for one of us." He blinked heavily. "Gotta have eyes peeled at all times."

"Aye."

Barely a minute had passed, and they were all asleep.

* * *

A few hours later Kozin was awoken by something. With his eyes still closed, he tried to figure out what had stirred him. Was it the gentle rocking of the boat, or was it the soft slapping of water against the wooden sides? Had it been the ropes of the sail knocking against the mast? The touch of icy wind against his already-numb face?

Or maybe it was the humming.

Kozin opened his drowsy eyes. His head was leaned back against the boat's rim, and he found himself staring up at the sky. It was darkened by clouds, but there were thin patches were the stars managed to shine through. The humming was still there. It was melodic. Pleasant.

Painfully, Kozin lifted his head. Across from him, with her arms leaning casually on the edge of the boat, was a woman. The humming came from her. She was watching him with a pleasant smile; her long golden hair fell around her lovely face and glistened in the dim moonlight like kelp.

Kozin was utterly confused. His senses were starting to clear up, but he was still not all quite there. He had no idea why he was sitting in a boat in the sea at some ungodly hour, or why this stunning woman was across the boat from him. In fact, he was so puzzled he didn't even realize that the woman's body was outside of the boat.

A snore caught his attention. He saw Oslan slumped against the side of the boat and Andryk lying in the middle. When Kozin looked at them, the woman stopped humming. The witcher glanced back at her.

"What are you doing there?" he asked her. Or that's what he thought he asked her. In actuality, his words came out in an incoherent slur. He was, after all, drowsy and still fairly intoxicated.

That didn't seem to bother the woman. She smiled even more sweetly at him. Raising and hand, she gently beckoned him to come closer. And he certainly would have, had the cold not nearly frozen him to the core and locked his limbs in place.

But the prospect of getting closer to this woman caused him to try again and again. It was a losing battle. "Cud'ye cmm'vr hrr?" he asked after a few fruitless attempts to move his sluggish body.

She didn't respond, and appeared to take his hesitation as reluctance. The woman took her arms down and gripped the sides of the boat. It was then Kozin realized that she was outside the boat. "Whu're ye flutin' ou'with in thrrr wahr? S'plenty o'spesss n'thr but."

Again, no response. However, this time, the woman pulled herself up a little. Through the dark, Kozin spied a trickle of water running down her neck, over her collarbone, and down onto her bare chest, which was now raised over the boat's side.

In an instant, the witcher bolted upwards like a bolt of lightning had struck him. Except that lightning had come straight from his groin. The boat moved under him, causing the drunk Kozin to lose his balance and topple onto the sleeping Andryk. The red-haired witcher made a sound that was somewhat equivalent to a goose being slapped in the belly.

Dazed but still very alert to what he had just seen, Kozin pushed himself up with Andryk's head, who gave a muffled protest.

"So s-so-ssssorry, miss," Kozin slurred, trying to squint at her face. "I dunno whus comin' ovruh me." He finally spotted her through his hazy vision. She had sunk back down behind the boat's edge, gripping onto the shaking boat tightly. Kozin tried to stand back up, but it was much harder now with a squirming, now awake body underneath him. "Come onnn, lassie. Dun be shuh-shy now."

"Aahh!" someone cried. It was Oslan. The commotion had woken him up too. He was now staring at the woman with a terrified look. She was staring back at him, all pleasantness gone from her expression. The irritated look on her face almost looked a bit… inhuman.

But Kozin didn't really care. It wasn't her face he was aiming for. "Os, shut yer geggy," Kozin snapped. He was holding onto the side of the boat and was trying to pull himself up with much difficulty. "We gotter lady in'a presesesnce."

"Lady?" Andryk repeated underneath him.

"N-nay! Tha-th-that's…!" Oslan stammered as he pressed himself against the side of the boat, shrinking away from the woman. She was clearly bothered by Oslan. With every second, she rose higher from behind the boat, her facial features twisting into that of animalistic rage. Kozin didn't notice it, as her chest and flat stomach had risen from behind the boat. Damn, what a sexy—.

"A SIREN!" Oslan yelled. In response, the creature opened her mouth, filled with needles, and let out a blood-curdling shriek. That awful howl snapped Kozin straight out of his horny trance. What was that thing!? Get it away from him!

The siren leaned forward, preparing to dive and snatch her first victim from the boat. Before she could, she was thrown backwards by the force of Oslan's Aard. As she fell into the water, Kozin felt the _thunk_ of her thick tail slapping the side of the boat.

It was silent for a while. Kozin had pulled himself up and was tightly hugging the mast. Oslan was still pressed against the boat, breathing heavily. Andryk sat up.

Then, coming from all directions, came the chorus of screams. They were muffled and resonated from below. Dozens and dozens of wild shrieks that all came from the water. Hearing them sobered Kozin up quite effectively.

"I-I think we should get out of here," he stuttered. Oslan nodded rapidly in agreement, his gold hair flapping. As Kozin reached up and touched the sail's ropes, they burst out from below. The water around them exploded as figure after figure shot out from the dark sea. Kozin saw them swarming in the air, careening closer and closer to the boat. He yanked desperately at the ropes.

Oslan ducked as a siren swooped dangerously close to him. Instinctively, he reached to his back, but no sword hilt met his hands. He felt at the damp planks around him. "We didn't bring _anything?_ " Oslan cried.

With a final tug, the ropes fell apart and the sail fluttered open. Out of the corner of his eye, Kozin saw a figure hurtling at him but couldn't move in time. The wind was knocked out of him as the siren collided into him, slamming Kozin into the side of the boat. The witcher quickly sat up and held his arms in front of him, but she had flown off.

"Os, let's get out of here!" he shouted.

"There's no wind!" Oslan cried back, beckoning wildly at the limp sail.

Meanwhile, Andryk was still sitting on the floor of the boat, arms held up triumphantly. "We found the sirens!" he exclaimed joyously. One of the monsters descended and latched onto the boat beside him. Turning to her, Andryk greeted, "Ho there, y'bonnie thing. Ye be lookin' a little lonely tonight." The siren scowled at him, baring her fangs, and brutally tore a chunk of the boat away. "Eager, aren't we? I don't blame ye. Why don't ye come over here an'—." He was cut off by the boom of Aard, and the siren dropped into the water.

"Oi!" Andryk snapped, turning angrily to Kozin. "I was talkin' to her! Get yer own!"

Kozin grabbed the edges of Andryk's fur trimmings and yanked him towards his face. "They're trying to eat us, Addie, you damn bastard fool!" he shouted. "This was your idea! Now help us get out of here!" A ripping noise caused both of them to look up.

Two sirens had grabbed hold of the sail and were pulling it apart. Flakes of torn canvas drifted over them like snow. An arm grabbed Kozin and pulled him up. The young witcher panicked for a moment, but calmed down when he realized that it had only been Oslan.

"Help me push the boat!" Oslan said, gesturing towards the stern. They may have lost the ability to move by wind, but they could still use the push of Aard. It was a last-ditch attempt, but at least it was better than floating around and being picked apart by the screeching swarm.

The two witchers faced the stern and timed it together, throwing Aard out as hard as they could. Unfortunately, in their desperation, they had forgotten the basic laws of physics. As the boat shot forward, the witchers were thrown in the opposite direction. Oslan let out a rattling cough as he slammed into the stern. Kozin felt a sharp pain as the wooden edge clipped his hip and he flipped over the side. The pain was soon swallowed by immense cold as the water engulfed him. As the bubbles cleared out in front of him, he saw the wobbling light of the moon shining from above.

Suddenly, the light was blotted out by a figure that appeared above him. For a brief second, Kozin saw the hair around the figure's head flare out. Then, it disappeared as the shadow darted towards him. Kozin felt something hit his body, pushing him down and away from the twinkling light.

The impact forced the air out of him. As he cried out, the last few bubbles escaped him and drifted away. The witcher struggled against the siren, but didn't stand a chance. He was in her territory.

But then a chance presented itself. Kozin's elbow made contact with the siren's head. She released him and writhed in pain. Quickly, Kozin flailed his limbs and managed to put some distance between him and the monster.

The siren recovered from the blow and looked around for her prey. When she spotted him, she opened her mouth and scowled, her raised lips uncovering her sharp teeth.

Kozin braced himself. _I'm not going to die like this_ , he thought fiercely to himself. _Not to this bitch!_ And to think they had come all this way just to find the likes of her.

The siren threw her shoulders back and leaned forward as she propelled herself towards him. Kozin raised his arm, his fingers forming Sign Aard as he waited. But before he could do anything, the siren tensed up in mid-flight. The scowl disappeared, replaced by a vacant look. She stopped moving, though she continued to float towards him. As she drifted past, Kozin spotted a crossbow bolt sticking out of her back. Then, something large passed overhead.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: I finally, FINALLY have time to finish this chapter. Ugh. Being busy and tired all the time sucks.**_

 _ **Also, DM;HS. Doesn't matter; had sirens.**_

 _ **Also anyone who can decipher Kozin's drunk speech gets a gold star sticker.**_


	6. Chapter 6 - Down the Path

_**Lysaccia: I don't even want to think about that. BUT NOW I'M THINKING ABOUT IT. NOOOO.**_

 _ **MaRAGhOUL: Unfortunately, Vesemir wasn't here to teach these dumbasses.**_

* * *

He was barely conscious when they pulled him out of the water and threw him onto the boat. That changed very quickly when a fist slammed into his chest. Kozin jerked upwards, coughing up a spurt of water. He fell back onto the wooden planks and wheezed heavily. It was like his entire chest cavity had been caved in.

Kozin felt a pair of hands skim over his body, and then the suffocating tightness in his chest began easing up. "Must I always remind you?" he heard Master Roffe chide through his muffled ears. "It's supposed to be multiple compressions, not one great big one! You'll be rearing to kill someone like that."

"Te hell wi'that," he heard another familiar voice reply—Master Galon. "If any student o'mine can't take somethin' wee like that, they ought not te be livin' anyhow!" The mage replied with an exasperated sigh.

After Master's Roffe's magic healed Kozin's broken ribs and bruised flesh, the young witcher finally managed to sit up. His head was spinning. It was making his stomach turn over on itself. From what he could tell, he was on a boat much larger than the one they had set out with. And judging by the footsteps and yells, it wasn't just Master Roffe and Galon who had come to their aid.

A screech jarred Kozin to his senses. He turned just as a siren landed in the boat next to him. Before she could lash out at him with her fangs, a large figure came rushing out from behind him.

" _Ho!_ " Master Brimir bellowed as he sent the siren flying back with a square kick. "Get your sorry hide off my boat, y'munter!" As the siren toppled over the edge, the old witcher slashed with the silver sword in his hand. As the blade curved through the air, drops of red flew from its tip and drew a red line on the wood.

Where were Oslan and Andryk? Kozin tried to stand, but one of the older witchers pushed him back down. " _You_ stay put where you are," he told Kozin. "You're fixing to bumble around and get in the path of someone's silver."

"I can fight," Kozin mumbled, fighting down a particularly nasty wave of nausea.

"Yeah, sure you can," the witcher replied sarcastically. Suddenly, a siren swooped in and latched onto him. After a brief struggle, the witcher managed to push her off and fired his crossbow. The bolt went straight through the monster, and she fell, thrashing, onto the boat. The witcher seized her and heaved her back into the water. "For fuck's sake! How did you manage to attract this many sirens in the dead of winter?"

"We're irresistible," Kozin muttered back. The older witcher flashed him an irritated look.

"Right, just keep your gob shut and stay right there."

"Wait!" Kozin said, looking around. "Where are—."

"That's the last one!" he heard Master Brimir shout. "Lift the anchor!" Kozin spotted him climbing up the ramp with a limp Andryk in tow. As soon as they were both in the boat, the red-haired witcher rushed over to the side and vomited loudly.

"Weak," he heard the older witcher with the crossbow and a few others mutter.

Chains rattled as the boat's anchor was hauled up. The sail puffed outwards as it caught a gust of wind and pushed the vessel forward. Behind them, Kozin saw the remains of their smaller boat. It was quickly being torn apart by the sirens.

"Son of a bitch. I built that," he heard another witcher grumble.

Finally, when their trail was clear of sirens, the masters turned to the three young witchers. "Ye must be pished or bleedin' stupid te get ye'selves wrapped up in this sort o'mess!" Master Galon boomed. "Ye glaikit fools are lucky we found ye in time, or the three of ye'd be nothin' but bones by now!" The masters were quite cross, and the older witchers were clearly annoyed with having to be dragged out into the cold.

It didn't stop there. When they returned to the island, a very displeased grandmaster was waiting for them. When they faced him, the grandmaster regarded them in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

"I'm not going to ask. I don't even want to know," Undevar began hotly, his voice frighteningly soft. "I hope you are all very aware of the absolute foolishness of your actions. Now what have you to say to me?"

Before anyone could say a thing, Kozin doubled over and heaved sick onto the ground. When he finally recovered enough to straighten back up, he saw Undevar looking down at him.

"Weak," the grandmaster said.

* * *

That night, the three of them agreed, had been enough action for the entire winter. While the snow fell, they spent their days within the school grounds. Then, before they knew it, the snow had disappeared. The dark clouds rolled away, and clear water lapped at the shores once more. Andryk and Oslan were thrilled.

Kozin, on the other hand, began to grow weary. Unlike his friends, he was very aware of what kind of people were waiting for them.

The grandmaster understood. On the day before young witchers were to set sail, he took Kozin on a brief stroll through the garden. They walked in silence for a while as they passed several odd-looking plants, all used for alchemy. Finally, Undevar said, "Your concern is not misplaced, Kozin. But do not let it cripple you. Witchers are not created by accident; we have a strong, dutiful purpose. Tomorrow, you shall set upon the Path."

Normally, Kozin was reluctant to ask such a simpleton question. But if he didn't do it now, it would be too late. "Grandmaster, what is the Path?"

Undevar paused. "What do you know," he marveled. "I'm not quite sure myself, to be perfectly honest." He placed his hands behind his back. "But knowing its exact meaning in words is not important. In time, you'll understand. But if you find yourself around Kaer Morhen, you can ask a friend of mine from the Wolf—Vesemir. I'm sure he still knows the definition by heart, damn him. Ah," he added quickly, "but don't tell him that I couldn't tell you. Just say you want to hear a different guild's perspective."

Kozin chuckled. "Of course, Grandmaster." But his brooding doubt quickly washed away his cheeriness. "What if I'm not prepared?"

"Tell me what this is," Undevar suddenly demanded, stopping by a flowering plant.

Kozin blinked. "Bryonia," he answered automatically.

"What can I do with it?"

"Its stem can be used in several decoctions and oils—."

"Name an oil."

"Uh… Draconid."

"Draconid?" Undevar repeated. "Interesting. Let's say you're happily going about your day when one such draconid appears. What do you do?"

"What kind is it?" Kozin asked.

"I don't know. Let's say… Ornitodracon."

That wasn't one he had faced before. Quickly, Kozin thought back to the pages of Undevar's bestiary. Ornitodracon… The sketch had showed something that was between a bird and a dragon. "Similar behavior to that of a cockatrice," Kozin said, recalling the words that had been written in the bestiary. "Has a heavy, reptilian body and poor eyesight. I'd down it and attack it from the side to avoid its beak and talons."

"You see?" Undevar reached forward and tapped Kozin's forehead. "Everything you need to be in there is there. All you lack is experience. You'll be fine."

"But the rest of Skellige—."

"Is my concern, not yours," Undevar assured. "You've given them no reason to harm you, so they won't. Just don't expect any warmth or smiles. And if you find yourself needing additional guidance, seek out Theila. She should still be somewhere on the isles."

Kozin nodded. Speaking with the grandmaster had soothed his fears. "I won't let you down."

"I should hope not," Undevar replied lightly. "My reputation is sinking fast enough as it is." He turned to face the young witcher. "Another thing I want you to keep in mind at all times: your duty is not to impress me or anyone else. Everything you do, you do for yourself." Regret suddenly clouded the grandmaster's eyes. "That isn't to say… Kozin, you mustn't…"

"I know," Kozin said. "I won't be like Valdre's witchers. I was taught by someone much better." He caught a glimpse of a small smile on Undevar's face before the grandmaster quickly turned away.

"That is all," Undevar dismissed quietly.

* * *

The three witchers soon gained their first taste of freedom. Quickly, it turned bitter. Kozin had expected the hostility, but still wasn't prepared for it. When they weren't spit or sneered at, they were ignored.

"Damn it all," Andryk growled as Kozin placed the two crowns he had earned for his ghoul head in his otherwise empty coin purse. "How's a witcher supposed to get by at all with these shite payments?"

Kozin thought back to the measly earnings that had been turned into the school. Now, in the scope of things, that amount seemed fairly impressive.

"Perhaps we ought to split up?" Oslan suggested, looking out from the dock towards the glimmering water. "Spread to other islands. We'd find more work that way."

"Mayhaps," Andryk agreed. "We'll bleed ourselves dry if we keep to the same area like this. I've been thinkin' about headin' up to Ard Skellig."

"I want to go to Ard Skellig," Oslan protested.

"I said it first, Os. What about Spikeroog?"

Oslan grunted. "Aren't nothing on Spikeroog but wind and rocks."

"How do ye know? Ye ain't ever been."

Meanwhile, Kozin had stopped listening to their conversation a long time ago. His attention was instead focused on the two men standing next to an idle cart. Though they were quite a distance away from the dock, he could hear their conversation with ease.

"I'm telling you—there's nary a soul out there radge enough to take you up on that offer," the stout man was telling his frantic-eyed companion.

"But I _need_ that wool back," the worried man replied. "If this shipment's late, I'm done for!"

"Sorry, friend. Even if you were to offer two hundred crowns, there'd still be no one willing."

The words rung in Kozin's ears. "Two hundred crowns?" he repeated incredulously under his breath. His friends glanced towards him.

"Ye say somethin', Ko?" Andryk asked. Kozin ignored them as he turned and quickly made his way to the two men. Andryk and Oslan followed.

"I heard you're looking for help," Kozin said as he approached the men. The stout one looked to the sound of his voice. Immediately, his face became sour when he saw Kozin's eyes.

"Keep your ears to yourself, witcher," he said harshly. The frantic man looked from him to Kozin.

"Y-yes, I am," he said.

"For two hundred crowns," Kozin furthered.

"Damn eavesdropper," the stout man spat.

"Well… Yes, that's right. Two hundred crowns to retrieve my cart."

Andryk looked with disbelief at the frantic man. "Yer blowin' off two hundred crowns fer a bleedin' cart?"

"That cart was holding my biggest shipment of wool," the man explained. "It needs to get delivered to Ard Skellig by the end of the week."

"So?"

Kozin reached backwards and gave Andryk a little shove. "Do you know where the cart is?" he asked.

"Not specifically. I just know where it was seen last."

"And that is…?"

"It was heading up to here from the southeast. I'm told bandits jumped it. The pony spooked and raced off the path, straight into the Coille na Draíocht."

This time, it was Oslan's turn to stare in astonishment. "Coille na Draíocht?" he echoed, aghast. Unlike Oslan, Kozin barely reacted to the name. He didn't know what or where that was. "My apologies. That cart is lost."

The man looked distraught. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"No it's not," Kozin argued, glancing at Oslan. "I'll get the cart. Where is this Coille na Draíocht?"

Before the man could respond, Oslan seized Kozin by the arm and pulled him back. "Don't be stupid, Ko. You can't take this."

"Why not?"

"Yeah!" Andryk agreed. "It's two hundred crowns, Os!"

"Two hundred crowns or your life?" Oslan hissed.

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Coille na Draíocht— _Forest of the Unknown_ ," Oslan continued. "Surely you remember what they told us back at the guild?"

Kozin detested geography. The memorization had been such a bore. "Not really."

"I remember. Anytime the masters mentioned that forest, they always repeated the same warning: if a witcher's got any sense in his head, he'll stay the hell away from there."

"Well, what a shame," Kozin muttered. "It seems I'm fresh out of sense."


	7. Chapter 7 - Coille na Draíocht

She said nothing as she sat reclined in her seat, legs crossed and hands resting gently on her thigh. Her face held a smile, but her eyes told Kozin that she was not pleased by what she had just heard. Still, the witcher continued to hold her gaze. For a while, they regarded one another in silence. Somewhere in the background of the small laboratory, a magical instrument hummed idly.

The sorceress lifted her head ever so slightly. "Are you out of your mind?" she asked, her voice barely higher than a whisper. Kozin's heart sank. He had come to Theila for advice, but instead was receiving a repeat of Oslan's prior scolding. It didn't matter; he was resolute.

"This is for my guild," the witcher insisted.

"What? Getting yourself killed?"

"The reward, Theila! If I can get those two hundred crowns—."

"Two hundred crowns? I'll pay you double," the sorceress interrupted briskly, spreading her arms onto both armrests. "If only if you stay out of that forest."

Kozin hesitated. Then, he remembered what Undevar had told him back on the island. "No," he affirmed. "I won't accept your money."

Theila leaned her head against her hand. "Quite the parrot of your dear grandmaster, aren't you?"

The witcher gripped his knees tightly. "Enough! I'm going into that forest," Kozin contended sternly, "with or without your help."

With a sigh, Theila gently rubbed her fingertips against her temple. "I've gotten quite adept at migraine remedies since coming to these isles," she muttered. " _Fine_. I've dealt with enough Skelligans to know that I can do little to dissuade you. What assistance do you desire? Shall I accompany you into the Coille na Draíocht?"

"I can't ask you to put yourself in harm's way," Kozin said.

"Looks can be deceiving, child. I'm not delicate."

"This is my contract. I just need your advice. What will I find in that forest?" The only response he got from the sorceress was a simple shrug. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means what you think it means."

"Theila—."

"It means I don't know."

"… You don't know?"

"I don't know."

"But—."

"Let me put it this way," Theila said, her voice growing firm. She laced her fingers together in front of her. "Anyone who has ever been in that forest is still in there."

That certainly did sound bad. "What about witchers?"

"Many were witchers." The sorceress's eyes softened. "That is why I have been so adamant that you stay away. I don't want you to be like those witchers. Think about Undevar. Come winter, he will be waiting for your return, anxious to hear how you spent your first year. But instead, the only thing he'll hear of is how you went into the Coille na Draíocht."

Kozin reflected silently on her words. He didn't want to imagine the look in Undevar's tired eyes if he'd heard the news. Then, Kozin slowly nodded. "You're right," he agreed. "I couldn't do that to him. I'll find another way to save my guild."

"I'm sure you will," Theila assured, the relief clear on her face.

"Thank you, Theila."

"Fair wind in your sails, witcher."

* * *

"I'm convinced, Os. It's not worth two hundred measly crowns," Kozin said as he folded the written document up. He reached over to the saddle that sat nearby and tucked it into one of the pouches.

Andryk flicked the leaf he had been fiddling with into the campfire. "Now what?"

"We had a plan, remember?" Oslan reminded him. "We spread out. I suppose I could go see what's to be found on Spikeroog."

"That's the spirit!" Andryk praised. He glanced over at the black-haired witcher. "Ko, where're ye headin' off?"

"I'm not sure," Kozin mumbled as he lay back, resting his head on the saddle.

"Well ye better be sure soon. We're splittin' ways in the mornin'."

"I know. Don't worry, I'll have it all figured out before then." He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. But he didn't fall asleep. Instead, he waited.

He waited until he heard the deep, even breathing come from the others. Kozin opened his orange eyes. He looked over to Andryk and Oslan, seeing them perfectly in the dark. Slowly, he sat up and delicately rose to his feet. With occasional glances towards the sleeping witchers, he picked the saddle up and tiptoed to where the horses were. As he neared them, all three slowly lifted their heads and looked at him. Thankfully, they were silent as they watched Kozin slip the saddle onto his own black, shaggy-haired horse. When the saddle was strapped on, he reached into a pouch and pulled from it the two-hundred-crown contract. On the back was drawn map that led to the Coille na Draíocht. Kozin took a moment to study the map, and then tucked the paper into his belt.

Taking the reins, he silently began leading the horse away, waiting until they were far away enough to mount and ride away. He had barely taken two steps when one of the other horses whinnied loudly as if to say, "Where are you going?" The witcher froze, shoulders locked in a cringe. He heard the scuffling as they immediately awoke.

"Ko? What are you doing?"

Panicked, the black-haired witcher whirled around and raised his hand. The other two horses, under the influence of Axii, were spurred into frightened hysteria and raced off. Kozin hopped onto the saddle and, ignoring the shouts from the others, kicked his horse into a gallop.

"That cheatin' bastard! He's goin' off te that damn forest!"

"Ko, _stop!_ You're not going to—!"

The voices of the two witchers quickly faded. Speeding through the dark, Kozin frantically looked out for the landmarks he had seen on the map. Yes, there! There was the waterfall! He pulled his reins to the left so that they veered towards the waterfall's slope. The stocky horse, Skelligan born and bred, clambered steadily over the craggy rocks. Once at the top, Kozin spied the next landmark—a tall, dead tree. Quickly, he guided his horse through the route that had been laid out in the map. As they passed each marker, he could feel the beast growing more and more nervous. Its sides heaved as it breathed more rapidly, and its ears began flickering back and forth incessantly.

Then, suddenly, it stopped. Kozin flew forward into the horse's neck and steadied himself. The horse took a few steps back and let out an anxious neigh. It was then Kozin realized that they were standing along the outer rim of a forest. He looked towards the right. A large cliff face corralled the trees in to the east. Towards the west, the forest seemed to stretch on forever. As he gazed into the trees, he found that an unsettling darkness seemed to manifest within the forest. He could barely see past the first few trees. He had the unshakeable feeling that something within was watching him. The medallion around his neck vibrated madly. He had arrived at the Coille na Draíocht.

The horse refused to move forward. Kozin urged it again. The beast let out a terrified noise and tried to turn around. Angrily, the witcher yanked it back with the reins. "Go!" he snapped with another kick.

This time the horse obeyed, though Kozin could feel that its body was incredibly tense. As they stepped into the forest, the witcher gave one last glance over his shoulder. When he turned back, his eyes struggle to see through the unnatural darkness. He thought he saw a human-shaped figure standing between the trees in the distance. The horse noticed it too. Then, in an instant, the figure was gone. Kozin could hear the faint pattering of feet on the forest floor.

Who had that been? Should he pursue? Kozin reached up and clutched his shaking medallion. So he wasn't alone in the forest. The thought made him a little unnerved. Perhaps Oslan and Theila had been right. Maybe this contract was too much for him to handle. Kozin pulled the horse around, and then froze.

They had only taken just a few steps into the forest. The threshold had been right behind him. But there was nothing there but more trees. Kozin looked around. More and more trees. The exit! Where was the exit?

His breathing quickened. He reached up to touch his furrowed brow. The air was so thick. It was making his head hurt.

He heard the horse let out a startled cry. There was movement. The witcher looked towards it, his hand already on the hilt of his silver sword. A nearby sapling was unfurling itself, turning its simple tree-like appearance into a twisted, vibrant one. The top of the sapling bloomed open into a grotesque, crimson jaw. Suddenly, the horse reared in fright. As soon as its front hooves hit the ground, it bolted. Kozin tumbled onto the ground and cursed loudly at the fleeing beast. The silver blade was already drawn in the witcher's hand as he leaped back up. He didn't wait for the archespore to completely shed its disguise before he swung his sword, slashing one of the monster's scaly vines off. The archespore let out a piercing screech and lunged at him with its large, spiny flower.

Kozin strafed to the side and threw fire at the archespore. It snaked under the cloud of flames and rushed at him. Again, Kozin dodged, but one of the archespore's vines caught the wrist of his sword-wielding arm and yanked him straight towards its jaw-like bloom. Gritting his teeth, Kozin drew a fist back and punched the toothy flower. The force of the hit caused the archespore to snap backwards, its flower shut tightly. Slowly, it straightened back up. Then, it opened its flower.

There was a face inside.

Kozin reeled back in horror. He could not bring himself to attack again, and helplessly held his sword up in a defensive stance as he stared at the pale face. It looked human-like, but looked of no human. Its facial features were barely defined, shadowed like ink splotched carelessly on white, papery skin. Two glowing pupils trained on the witcher from a black abyss, and an unnaturally large mouth gaped wide open. There was nothing inside. Yet Kozin could hear it speak, its voice garbled.

" _Kozin… Kozin… Kozin…_ " it repeated, its voice growing louder.

The young witcher scowled. "Stop it!" he shouted, trying to drown out its deformed voice. "STOP IT."

The archespore lunged. The face shot at him. Terrified, Kozin stumbled backwards and swung his blade upwards as hard as he could. Whether by trained reflex or simple luck, the arc of the silver went through the archespore's stalk. The blossom split away from the body, sailed through the air, and hit the grass with a heavy thud. Kozin watched as it tumbled across the ground, and then finally stopped. Limp red petals fell apart. There was no face inside.

Panting, Kozin looked from the flower to the rest of the dead archespore. Some of its vines twitched. What had that been? He was certain he had seen the face. Perhaps it was one of the monster's tricks, like the sapling disguise. But he heard it speak… No, another trick. With his sword still drawn, Kozin walked away. He needed to get out. But how? Where was 'out?' Where had his horse gone? He looked around. The trees were swaying, but there was not the slightest trace of wind.

"Kozin." Dammit, that voice was still ringing in his head. The witcher raised a hand and pressed his fingertips into his temple. "Kozin." He lowered his hand, listening again.

"Kozin, where are you?" Someone seemed to be calling out. It wasn't the archespore's deranged voice. It was a woman. Kozin recognized it immediately.

"Ma?" he said aloud, his voice weak. It had been years, but… He could never forget. "I-it can't…"

"Come back. Come back to me."

She was calling for him. Kozin looked around, but didn't see anyone. His mind and his vision were growing fuzzy. It was a comfortable, numb kind of drowsiness. He began to walk forward. The tip of his sword scraped along the ground as he moved. "I thought you… didn't want me."

"You are my son, are you not?"

"I am."

"Then come to me. Let me see you."

"Where are you?"

"I'm getting closer."

With his next step, there was a crunch. Dazed, Kozin blinked groggily and looked down. There was a peculiar-looking patch of vegetation growing on the ground. It was pale, like the archespore's face, and sprawled across the ground like twigs. Some were slightly curved. With each step, they cracked in the most nauseating manner. A few of the plants were even sphere-like. As Kozin stumbled over one and kicked it across the ground, it clattered like stone.

What odd flora. Perhaps he ought to record it in his journal. He felt around his body for the hide-bound notebook, but quickly gave up. He was too tired, and it was hard to think straight. The entry could wait 'til morning.

"I see you."

Movement and rustling caught his unfocused attention. He looked up, and saw something crawling through the canopy towards him. It was a person. Kozin saw their eyes watching him closely. It crept through foliage with long, spidery limbs. Its stare never left him.

Kozin stumbled back, the white plants crunching under him. "Y-you're not—."

"Come to me, Kozin," his mother's voice beckoned. "Come near." The thing in the canopy continued to weave slowly towards the branches, approaching.

Kozin blinked, trying to clear his muddled head. His body had suddenly grown a lot heavier. "Get… away…" he mumbled. He tried to raise his sword in front of him, but found his hands empty. Somewhere along the way, he had dropped it without realizing.

He reached for his steel sword, but the thing was already above him. It reached down with a long, thin arm and gently, almost lovingly, touched his face with a wide hand. "Let me see your face," it purred, "up close." Kozin felt his head being pulled upwards. His eyes almost met its gaze.

Suddenly, the hand withdrew and the thing disappeared. Startled, the witcher tripped backwards and landed on his back. He saw the spidery figure squirming in the treetops, letting out a terrible, guttural wail. Something thin was sticking out of its arm. In a flash, something shot through the air. Another thing stuck to the thing, this time to its side. Still wailing, the thing scurried away, leaving in its wake a curtain of falling leaves. Kozin felt a few of them brush against his face.

Then, barely, he heard the light patter of footsteps. The witcher was immediately on his feet, though his head swam. Standing a short distance away, there was a blurry figure. It wavered, though Kozin didn't realize that it was because of his own swaying.

This new thing, whatever it was, was dangerous too. He was sure of it. Instinctively, he reached back for his sword. But the sudden movement proved too much for him. His legs buckled, and he was unconscious even before he hit the ground.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Watch out for them forest-dwelling basketball players. Creeping through the trees. Snatchin' yo peoples up.**_


	8. Chapter 8 - I Found Your Cart

" _And you didn't try to stop him?_ "

She could hardly remember the last time her voice had risen to such hysterical levels. But her tone could hardly compare to the panicked, overwrought frenzy that whirled inside of her.

The red-haired one, Andryk, looked offended by her accusation. "What'a ye sayin'? Ye think we jus' stood around an' watched him ride away te that damn forest? O'course we tried!"

Theila let out a shaky breath. Closing her eyes, she turned away from the two witchers and processed the news they had delivered to her. Kozin had gone into the Coille na Draíocht. She'd told him not to. She'd _told him._ What was it with these Bear witchers and always doing the stupid things she advised against?

"We've got to go in after him," she heard one of them say. It was the one named Oslan. She had always presumed him to be the reasonable one.

Turning back, she asked him, "Is that supposed to be some sort of joke?"

"I'm serious!" Oslan insisted. "Kozin's in there at this very moment! He needs us!"

"Charging in there with the intent of saving your friend will not protect you from what lurks within!" Theila snapped. "Do you think you're the first to want to run in after someone? You'll do nothing but share in the fate of everyone who has _ever_ gone in there!"

"Then what do you want us to do? Give up on him?"

The suffocating grip of helplessness was more than she could bear. She wanted to scream. "I didn't say that," Theila said, again turning away. She raised both hands and pressed them tightly against the side of her head, her mind racing. There had to be something she could do. An enchantment, teleportation, anything! But she knew it would all be useless. Some strange power resided in that forest. Magic could not affect anything within it. _Think, you old girl, think!_

"He mentioned some sort of contract," Theila recalled, the words slipping quickly from her mouth, "for two hundred crowns. Who gave him this contract?"

"Some wool merchant," Andryk answered. "Told Ko he'd pay him to find a cart."

"Where is this merchant?"

"Portside inn. He said he'd give Ko three days."

"Portside inn," Theila repeated. "Okay. I need a word with him. You two stay here, and don't even _think_ about going near that forest." Unbeknownst to the witchers, the sorceress muttered an incantation under her breath that rendered the doors, windows, and walls impassable. She knew better this time.

Teleportation, even to places she'd never been to, had long stopped being any sort of challenge. Theila closed her eyes and felt the familiar feeling of brief weightlessness. Then, in another second, she felt solid ground under her feet once again. The enchantress opened her eyes and was greeted by the quiet night. The little port was quiet. Water slapped gently against the dock, and tethered boats creaked on the water. The inn stood before her, a cacophony of voices leaking out from it.

The door flew open and she stepped in. The inn was quite lively with dockworkers and sailors relaxing for the night. Most of the noise died down when Theila appeared. She'd instantly caught the attention of many eyes. Theila ignored them as she made her way over to the innkeeper, a tall, plump woman.

"What can I get ye, miss?" the innkeeper asked from behind the counter, topping off a tankard. With her other arm, she held up a tray with an impossibly large number of tankards balancing on it.

"I'm looking for a merchant."

"Lots o'merchants here."

"There should be one that's waiting on a witcher," Theila clarified.

" _Ahh_ ," the innkeeper mused. "There's a fellow like that in here. He an' a few others came in here. Wouldn't stop talking some witcher; called him 'slit-eyes.'" She nodded towards one end of the inn. "That one. He's the one sitting o'er there, that table. Ye see him? Aye, that one."

On the way to the table the innkeeper indicated, a brash arm shot out and attempted to steal a quick feel on the sorceress. With a flick of her wrist, she deflected the hand with a painful shock that produced a yelp from the offender.

It was clear that the merchant and everyone sitting around him had already become aware of her. Their murmuring stopped when she drew close, and all occupants of the table turned towards her when she stopped by them.

Before any of them had a chance to speak, Theila demanded, "You sent a witcher into the Coille na Draíocht with the promise of payment, did you not?"

"Aye," the merchant replied, his voice a little heavy from the alcohol. The very fact that this idiot was relaxing in this inn, downing beer like he didn't have a care in the world, infuriated the sorceress.

From another table, someone called out, "Have a drink with us, love!"

Theila ignored them. "Do you realize what you've done?" she asked softly, diligently keeping her rage tucked away.

"Ease up, lass!" one of the merchant's companions said. His face was nearly completely hidden by foliage of hair and beard. He threw back the remnants of his tankard, streams of amber liquid dampening his beard. "The witcher agreed to the job. It's not like he was coerced into it."

Kozin was young. And his desire to save his guild made him desperate. It might as well have been coercion. "You knew," Theila accused, anger slowly seeping into her voice with every word. "You knew about that forest. You knew what befell everyone who went in there. You _knew_." The men at the table were visibly growing nervous. " _You knew you were sending that boy to his death!_ " The wooden tankard in the merchant's hand shattered. The men flinched as wood splinters and droplets of beer struck them. The inn had become deathly silent save for the innkeeper, who grumbled about the destroyed tankard.

Theila barely had a chance to restore her composure when she heard the door open and a set of heavy footsteps enter the inn. "I found your cart," a voice announced, dripping with exhaustion. "Hope you don't mind, but the pony's dead and most of the wool is covered in sludge."

The men stared past the sorceress to the speaker, their mouths agape. Theila turned, her face equally as shocked. It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be. But there he was, unscathed and weaving through the crowd towards the merchant's table. When he met the sorceress's eyes, he stopped.

"Theila?"

" _Kozin?"_

"What are you doing here?"

"You went into the forest."

"I know," Kozin's voice became a little sheepish, like a child admitting to wrongdoing. "And I know you told me not to, but just understand. This was for my guild, for Undevar. I had to go in there." As he looked to the merchant, his tone became more authoritative. "And I got your cart back as per our agreement. I'd like my reward now."

"Right," the merchant agreed quickly. "The agreement… right. Well, you see—."

Theila shot an intensely fiery glare at the man. "Pay him."

"But I—."

"He did what you fucking asked!" Theila snapped as another tankard exploded. "Pay. Him."

* * *

She spotted the cart as they left the inn. It was a sorry sight to see—broken, disfigured, and covered in mud and dead leaves. She couldn't believe Kozin had risked his life for that stupid thing. But what was more astounding was that he was even standing there next to her.

"Where are the others?" Kozin asked. Theila realized that he was referring to the other two witchers.

"Don't worry about them." They were probably trying to bash down the laboratory door at this very moment. But the amusing thought was quickly cast out of the sorceress's mind as she turned towards the black-haired witcher. "Kozin," she said gravely. "How did you get out of the forest? What happened?"

The witcher met her questions with silence and downcast eyes.

"What's the matter?"

"I went in. Found the cart. That's all," Kozin reply cagily, still not meeting her eyes. His reluctance to answer frightened Theila.

"Why won't you tell me? What happened in there?"

"Honestly, Theila, you don't need to worry!" Kozin cried, finally looking up. The sorceress noticed how his face was a little flushed. Her concern was replaced with confusion. She decided on a different approach.

"What did you find in there?"

"I…" Kozin hesitated. "I'm not sure what I saw."

"Like what?"

"Things that shouldn't have existed."

A pause. "Kozin?"

"What?"

"Are you embarrassed about something?"

"N-no! … Why?"

"You're turning very red."

The young witcher quickly ducked his face away. "You don't need to worry," he muttered again as he hurried away. "You don't! Honestly."

* * *

Tall, dark shapes. They were trees… maybe. The shuffling certainly did sound like wind in leaves. Something else—a soft bubbling. A creek was nearby. Kozin closed his eyes in a long blink and opened them. His surroundings became instantly crisp. Indeed, there were trees. A thin creek, like a ribbon draped gently over the landscape, ran beside him. This place was nice. It was peaceful. He felt at home.

Slow, heavy footsteps caught his attention. Lazily, Kozin turned to look. From between the trees emerged a large bear. It was a beast unlike anything Kozin had ever seen before. Its fur, oddly enough, was entirely gray. With each dense step, waves of ripples ran through the bear's silver coat. It was walking towards him.

Some bears, he had been told, were quite territorial. Others curious. But it was too dangerous to wait and find out what kind of creature this one was. The witcher reached back for his sword. As he did, the bear lifted its head. Their gazes met, one beast-like pair of eyes to the other. Immediately, Kozin's grip on the hilt of his weapon loosened. In the bear's small, round eyes, he saw everything. It had not come to hurt him. In fact, in its old, tired eyes, he saw something familiar. The witcher lowered his hand to his side as the bear took another step towards him.

Suddenly, the beast's eyes hardened. Its snout wrinkled as it pulled its lips up in a snarl. It swiveled its wide head to the side. Kozin heard angry shouts. They were muffled as though distance separated them, but he felt their hostile presence nearby. He tried to move, but found that he was unable to move his legs. He became frightened.

The bear turned to face the presence. They appeared, blurry shapes of men with swords and axes in their hands. They had come to slay the beast. Their wordless voices cried out for its blood. It was a monster. They had to kill it.

Kozin tried to protest, but he had no control of his body. He could only watch as the bear reared up and fought back. With a broad paw, it struck a man and he dissolved into smoke. Another ran up and sank his blade into the beast's belly. The bear fell heavily onto its paws and caught the man in its powerful jaws. The man disappeared, and smoke seeped from the bear's mouth. A shield flew forward and smashed the bear's head. The beast stumbled, letting out a terrible cry.

He wanted them to stop. The bear was not a monster. They were killing it for wrongs it did not do. Kozin reached back to his sword, but his weapons had vanished. Another man swooped his broad axe upwards. The curved blade sliced into the bear and threw it onto its side. The shouts grew louder as the men converged around the bear.

 _Get up! GET UP!_

The man with the axe stood before the bear's head. He raised the heavy weapon.

 _Don't let them do this! Please!_

The bear did not attempt to get up. Its silver fur stuck together in red clumps. It tilted its head to look at Kozin. Sorrow was in its eyes. It knew. It was apologizing.

Kozin cried out its name as the axe was brought down.

* * *

He awoke with a strangled gasp. The young witcher sat up and looked around, searching for the bear. No, searching for _him_. But he was not in the same place. Then he remembered; he remembered going into the Coille na Draíocht. There were no bears here, only nightmarish shit. The memory of the creature in the canopy returned to him. He looked up. There was nothing there.

In fact, the trees looked quite different here. They parted to show the sky, and slices of sunlight fanned down towards the grass. The air no longer made his head hurt. Kozin realized he was in a glade. Looking around, the witcher guessed that he was still in the Coille na Draíocht, though this glade seemed to be a pocket free of whatever evil settled over the rest of the forest.

"Were you dreaming of your father?"

The voice caused Kozin to spring to his feet. When he confronted the speaker, he saw a woman half-hidden behind a tree.

"Who's there?" the young witcher called out wearily.

The woman emerged from the tree. She wore thin, billowy clothes, and her skin was a pale shade of green. Her dark emerald hair fell loosely around her shoulders. With both hands, she delicately held a sword.

"You're a dryad," Kozin noted. The woman nodded. Kozin's eyes fell onto the weapon in her hands. "That's—."

"Yours," the dryad said. She began to walk towards him. Kozin tensed.

"Stop," he snapped. The woman did so. "Put it on the ground." She did. "Back away."

When she was a good distance away, Kozin retrieved his silver blade from the grass. Holding it firmly in his hand, he continued to watch the dryad closely.

She didn't seem to share his rancor. She watched him with gentle eyes and repeated her question. "Were you dreaming of your father?"

"What do you mean?"

"In your sleep, you were writhing. Perhaps it was a nightmare. 'Da, Da,' you kept crying out.'

Kozin took his eyes off of the dryad and gazed down at the ground. He did recall having a dream, though he couldn't quite remember what it was about. He just remembered feeling sad.

Movement caught his eye. He looked up to see the dryad taking a step towards him. In a flash, he raised his sword. She stopped.

"You are safe here," she told him. "Here, in this glade, Damhánalla cannot get you."

"The thing in the trees? The thing that pretended to be my mother?"

"Yes."

"What was that thing?"

"I do not know," the dryad answered truthfully. "It was here long before my people arrived."

"People? There are more dryads here?"

"We came here to escape the persecution of mankind," she said. "The forest is untouched because of men's fears and Damhánalla. When we fled into the trees long ago, we were few. Our numbers had been cut down. But here, our tribe has regenerated. We know how to avoid Damhánalla. The men that raced in after us did not. They were quickly hunted down. It poisoned the air and tempted the prey into its arms. Invaders stopped coming, and after many generations, mankind forgot about us. But they do not forget the fear."

"Innocent people have come in here and died!" Kozin protested. "Do you just let that thing claim them?"

"We cannot risk trusting them. We will not be hurt by men again."

"Then what about me?"

"You are…" For once, the dryad looked uneasy. "You are different."

"Different?"

"I watched you as you trekked through the forest," the dryad said. "And as I did, I felt that I could not let Damhánalla get you. My sisters disagreed. They are weary of witchers. After the men who chased us could not get to us, they sent in witchers. The monster-slayers shared in the same fate as the others." Her gaze went to the sword in his hands. "Is that why you are here? Did they send you into the forest to kill us?"

As he listened to her, reasoning replaced his fears. The dryad had saved his life despite the danger he posed to her. The witcher lowered his sword. "No," he answered.

"Then why are you here?"

"I came to find a cart."

"A cart?"

"A merchant's cart, pulled by a panicking pony, disappeared into this forest."

"Oh," the dryad said softly. "The crashed cart. Yes, I know where it is."

"You do? Where is it?"

"I will not tell you."

"Why not?"

The dryad walked towards him, taking long, leisurely steps. The way she moved, her steps accentuating the curve of her hips, seemed to transform her from a mystical creature to a sensual woman. As she drew closer, Kozin noticed that her clothes were rather transparent. The dryad stopped before the transfixed witcher. She raised a hand and ran it delicately over the leather sword strap on the witcher's chest. "I save your life, did I not? By your rules of honor, you owe me a debt of whatever value I choose."

"Y-yes," was all Kozin could manage. He was terribly flustered, and that, thankfully, was what kept a certain sword of his undrawn.

"It was been rather lonely in this forest," the dryad continued. With her hand still on his chest, she began to gently push him backwards as she walked forward. "Before I show you your cart, you will repay your debt to me. Tell me, witcher. Have you ever been with a woman?"

Kozin felt his back hit a tree.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Achievement unlocked-Bow chicka wow wow.**_


	9. Chapter 9 - Split Paths: Andryk pt-I

The incident with Coille na Draíocht only caused a brief delay in their plans. In the short time they had before they were to split off, Andryk and Oslan had as much luck as Theila in trying to pry what happened in the forest out of Kozin. They'd suspected something traumatic at first, but Kozin's barely suppressed grin told them otherwise. As desperately as they wanted to know, the subject was dropped when they sailed their separate ways. It would not be until the waters froze before they saw each other again.

Given his nomadic nature, a witcher had very few possessions to his name. On the eve of every winter the returning Bear witchers boasted nothing new save more weight in their coin bags and additional scars—no witcher was without them. Indeed, the past year had not spared him either.

With his eyes trained on the island in the horizon, Andryk reached up and absently scratched the fresh scar tissue that ran down his face. The cut started, but thankfully not touched, the corner of his eye, stretched down his cheek and over his jawline, and ended near the middle of his neck. He rather liked the new feature. It made him look like a fierce, seasoned witcher. His only lamentation was that it cut a barren line through his otherwise magnificent beard.

As he neared the shore, he spotted the other boats. They had already been pulled up to the shore in preparation for the ice. From the looks of them, it seemed like everyone had already returned. He was last. But then again, would that surprise anyone?

They were waiting for him when he drifted to the shore. The familiar sight of their two faces filled him with a ridiculous amount of joy, though he'd never for the life of him admit it. Andryk attempted to act nonchalant as he hopped out of the boat, his boots splashing into the shallow water.

Oslan was the one who spotted his scar first. "Look at that, Ko," he mused. "Figures Addie would be the first to mark up his face."

"Bet he didn't get out of the way in time," Kozin teased.

"Or maybe he considers his face as a glorified shield."

Andryk's attempt to stay composed failed. He stopped dragging the boat when his laughter demanded too much from his lungs. "Fuck off," he struggled to gasp. The other two came forward to help him pull the boat ashore. It was when they drew close that they realized that Andryk had not come by himself. Witchers hardly brought anything new, but Andryk had brought with him a companion.

Kozin and Oslan shared equally repulsed stares at what was sitting in the boat.

"What is _that?_ "

* * *

Ard Skellig, the pumping heart of the isles, was unlike anything Andryk had ever seen. For one, it was _enormous_. Unlike any of the islands Andryk had been to, Ard Skellig could not be crossed from shore-to-shore within a single day's travel. He might as well have been on the damn continent.

And the fortresses. Ard Skellig was littered with them. They could be easily seen from the distance as Andryk galloped through the rocky grasslands—sharp, angular stone structures that served as monuments of mankind's claim over nature. Between fortresses, the witcher encountered many a village. There were so many people here. And so many women.

The way of the sword, the bestiaries, the Signs—they had all been hard to learn. But nothing, the witcher determined, was more difficult than learning women. Apparently, they spoke a completely different language than what he had learned. The words were the same but they seemed to snatch different meanings out of thin air. What charmed one, offended the next. It was like facing an opponent in a duel: he had to be alert and quick on his feet. He had seconds to adapt. And if there ever was a stumble in his footing, things could get bad. And with women, things got _bad._

Being headstrong and stubborn did not prevent Andryk from mastering this art. It was, after all, just another thing to be learned. But there were just a few times when he found himself a little over his head.

With every delicate, cautious tiptoe, the young man cursed himself. In his head, of course. He dared not make a sound out loud. That would wake her up. And that wouldn't do, not at all. He wanted to be long gone before that happened. His trousers and shirt were on the floor where he had hurriedly discarded them the night prior. As he slipped them on, Andryk threw a quick glance at the still shape under the covers.

It all started a few days prior. An uncontested champion, he had been told, resided in the local tavern. Any man who crossed arms with this champion in a round of arm wrestling would quickly have their knuckles smashed against the tabletop. Andryk could never resist a record-keeper; it was a screaming invitation for him to come and break it.

He'd sauntered in to the tavern, looking around for the burliest man in there, the one who could be this "champion." The patrons directed him to the table that would serve as his arena. The one who sat across from him, his undefeated opponent, was a woman.

And not just any woman. It was as if the finest sculptor had reached into Andryk's head and retrieved every last detail of what the witcher considered to be a perfect woman and had molded a physical representation. Arms that looked as though they could snap a tree in half, and steely eyes in an otherwise feminine face. Hell yes. Let Oslan have his frumpy, _normal_ women and Kozin his twig-like sorceresses.

"See here," Andryk told her when he took his seat across from her, a sly grin on his face. "Don't ye be expectin' me te go light on ye jus' 'cause yer a lass."

She regarded him brashly. "Likewise," she taunted, placing her elbow on the table.

She did end up giving him more of a challenge than he expected. There even was a time when Andryk grew worried he might lose. The witcher drowned out the shouting around him, honing in on his tight, trembling arm. That worry, of course, was misplaced. In the end, he won and became the new champion. But that wasn't all. Just as he'd slammed her hand down on the table, he found himself slamming her down on the mattress. In between those two events, there might have been a questionable amount of drink involved.

It had been the best time of his life, though there were countless times during the night when it felt as though she was on the verge of snapping his neck and various other bones. That hype quickly faded in the early hours of the morning and he awoke to an aching head _and_ body. It was time to go. As perfect as she was, Andryk had to move on. He was a witcher, after all. To be tethered down by a relationship was unthinkable.

But that was another thing with the women he had encountered. They didn't take that idea too well. They reacted rather… poorly when they caught the witcher trying to steal away at dawn. This time was no different.

Andryk had no idea how they managed to wake up at the most inopportune moment despite how quietly he moved. Perhaps it was some sort of sixth sense that only the opposite sex possessed.

He ducked and heard the crash as the sailing cleaver shattered through the window. Andryk took the brief opportunity to flee out the front door, shouting at the usual excuses over his shoulder. There had been a real connection, but his work got in the way, that kind of bullshit. She replied with no short supply of curses. His sword scabbards were still in his hand, as he had no time to strap them over his chest. Unlike his other past flings, he was certain this one would definitely be capable of killing him if she caught up.

"I'm sorry, darlin', I really am! But I've got te keep goin' where the wind takes me!"

Something hard—a rock, a shoe, anything like that—bounced off the back of his head, causing him to see double.

"Your wind can kiss my fuckin' arse!"

He was really going to miss her.

* * *

That wind then lend him to Fornhala, a little village that staggered along a rocky slope. Andryk eyed it as his horse brought him closer. Though the village looked like any of the other dozen he had encountered before, this one had a strange, under-the-skin feeling to it. Andryk hopped down from his horse and led it by the reins into the gateless village. A few people paused to stare at the witcher as he passed by, though their eyes held anything but friendliness. At this point, he had grown to expect this kind of treatment. Any of sign of amenity was the real shocker.

"A witcher, eh?" a voice said with a particularly curious tone. It was a tone that signaled a job. Quickly, Andryk turned his head. The speaker was a weathered-looking old man. _Papery_ could have been the better word to describe him. The grizzled tangle that hung from his wrinkled face looked to weigh more than he did. An ordinary sigh could have knocked this old granda over.

Immediately Andryk's curious gaze was replaced by a cold one. A _mage_. He disliked these magic-dabblers. They thought they were so smart, so cunning with their little tricks.

"Aye, a witcher. What of it, ye old codger?" Andryk replied gruffly before yanking his horse away and plodding off. He heard the wizard reply in a small, creaky voice, but didn't care to pay attention to his words.

At the front of the village's little general store was a water trough and wooden posts for travelers to tether their horses to. Andryk found an empty post and fastened the reins to it while the horse dipped its head to the water. He didn't need to worry about his belongings. Little places like this often circulated rumors about witchers' bags cursing any who touched them. Of course, that was all mince. But it was nice to have the rumor, along with the grisly cave troll head on its meat hook, offering hassle-free protection to his saddlebags. And besides, he didn't have much to take save for a bit of food and some witcher potions. Unless someone had their heart set on that leathery troll head.

Shopkeepers were an excellent source of information, perfect for catching onto the scent of a contract. As Andryk entered the general store, he spied a distraught woman speaking quietly to the shopkeeper. When they noticed the witcher, the conversation ended. The woman collected her tiny basket of groceries and hurried away. Andryk caught the panicked look on her face, the look of someone being terrorized by something. Hello, contract.

The shopkeeper was hurriedly straightening up his counter as Andryk came up. "Havin' monsters around is bad fer business," Andryk began, hooking a hand onto his belt. "Makes people too scared te leave their homes."

"Not monsters, witcher sir," the shopkeeper replied. "Black magic."

Aw shite. Magic of any kind was never his strong suit. "Don't sound too nice, that," Andryk replied. "Care te give me a smidge more detail?"

"I don't know much," the shopkeeper answered. "I just been hearing things. That woman here before you was just telling me about her sister. Vanished. Not the first, and certainly not the last at this rate."

"Disappearin' folks sounds more like a monster," Andryk said. "Could be a hungry ghoul or hag snatchin' stragglers up."

"Could be, but there are rumors suggesting dark magic is involved. If you ask around, the people around here could give you a little more to go on." Immediately, Andryk thought of the hunched old mage he had seen earlier.

"Aye, I'll do that."

When he stepped out of the store, his eyes immediately fell onto his horse. A little thief was tugging at the saddle. "Ho!" Andryk snapped. "Damned mangy beast! Don't touch that!" The dog, with her two front paws propped up on the horse's side, was gnawing at the ragged flesh of the troll's severed neck. When she heard Andryk's bellow, the dog quickly lowered herself onto the ground and backed away. However, instead of running, the dog plopped down onto the ground. Its dark nose, pressed into the ground, blew billows of dust into the air with every heavy breath.

As Andryk grew closer, her deep brown eyes raised to follow him. The witcher realized why she hadn't run—she couldn't. The dog was only a skeleton under her thin, measly fur. The outline of her ribs jutted out sharply along her sides. The effort it took for her to reach up to the troll's head exhausted her. No wonder she had resorted to nibbling at that foul, bitter flesh.

Andryk crouched down. The dog continued to stare silently at him, her laborious breathing shaking her thin frame. He extended out a hand. The dog let out a whimper. She squeezed her eyes shut as he brought the hand closer, but opened them again when Andryk gave her head a gentle pat. Her brown fur felt course and clumpy.

"The proper way o'gettin' scran from a stranger is askin' first, ye hear?" He took a piece of dried rabbit meat from one of his bags and offered it to her. The dog gave it a little sniff, and then gripped it shyly with her teeth. She downed it all at once, and then stared at the witcher. "Yer goin' te starve a man te death with all yer beggin', ye freeloadin' lil'bastard." Nevertheless, Andryk gave in to her innocent stare and gave her another piece.

After gulping down the second piece, the dog hauled herself up and began limping away. Andryk watched her stringy tail dangle listlessly as she wandered off. Heaving a sigh, the witcher turned back to his horse. A person was standing there just inches from his face. Andryk jumped back with a shout. It was the old mage.

"Ye crazy old minger!" Andryk barked, his heart racing. "Have ye been followin' me?"

"I would like your help," came the croaky response. Judging from his voice, the wizard was not local. He'd most likely come from the continent.

"Well wait in line," Andryk grumbled. "I already have—."

"You heard about the disappearing people, right?"

"I… well, aye." He jabbed a finger at the mage. "An' I heard some sort o'funny magic is involved. Care te explain yerself?"

"Are you accusing me?" Though the mage's face was mostly obscured by his frizzled mop, Andryk could still detect a hint of annoyance on his wizened face. "Good witcher, I have traveled here to get to the bottom of this mystery myself! I have heard whispers of this black magic as well. As of now, I have had no such luck in getting any useful results. And, giving your brash display of mannerisms, I doubt you will too! So I say again, I would like your help."

Andryk glowered at the little man. He longed to tell the bastard off, but hesitated. If some sort of magic was involved, perhaps it was best to bring this mage along. "I'm not likin' yer tone, or that nasty, outlandish accent o'yers," he said, "but ye strike a dead good point. Fine, ye got yerself a deal."

The mage's heavy eyebrows rose at this unexpectedly simple victory. "Very well, then," he mumbled. "Very well… I am Codren Kechinhart. May I have your name, good witcher?"

"Andryk."

"Of…?"

"Andryk's all ye need te know," the witcher replied sharply. "What, are ye gonna ask for me boot size too?"

"They're right," the wizard muttered under his breath, either unaware of or indifferent to the fact that Andryk could hear his words quite clearly. "Bear witchers are odd ones." Louder, he said, "Very well, Andryk. Have you any leads on our little mystery?"

It was amazing how the wizard manage to string his words together in a way that nettled Andryk the most. "I saw a woman in the store—her sister's gone missin'."

"Hm… then we must go speak to this woman." Codren scratched at his bumpy nose with a single finger. "Perhaps the shopkeeper may be able to tell us where she lives."

"That house," Andryk said, nodding in the direction of a small cottage.

"How do you know?"

"She left the store with a basket of goods, includin' lavender lard soap," Andryk answered. "An' I'm catchin' a faceful of lavender comin' from there."

"Very well, very well!" Codren mused, eyeing Andryk's nose in an unnerving manner. "The olfactory senses of a witcher never cease to amaze! Hm, I would very much like to examine the nasal components of a fully mutated witcher."

A chill ran up Andryk's spine. "Ye best be keepin' a good distance from me face." He turned away from the weird old mage and look towards the woman's house. "Are we actually goin' te go or are ye goin' te keep gogglin' at me?"

"It was just a remark," Codren dismissed lightly as he shuffled past Andryk. The witcher reluctantly followed. When they reached the house, the wizard knocked on the door with the bulb of his gnarled staff. After a moment, the door opened and a wide eye peeked from the crack.

"Haven't I been tormented enough?" the woman asked in a trembling voice.

Codren proceeded to say something, but his voice was quickly drowned out by Andryk's. "Listen here, missy," the witcher said. "I'm here te find out what happened te yer sister an' put this trouble te rest. I need ye te tell me about—no, no, don't ye be hidin' now." He shot his hand out and caught the door before the woman could shut it. With a firm shove, he threw the door open. The flustered woman stumbled back. "I'm tryin' te help, silly woman." Terrified, the woman reached to the side and clutched a broom defensively to her chest.

"Let _me_ , Andryk," Codren sighed. "For god's sake, you're about as approachable as a coastal hurricane." To the woman, he introduced himself and told her of their objective. Calmly, he suggested that they sit down to discuss the matter. Before he stepped over the threshold, he turned to Andryk, barring the witcher's path with his staff. "It would be beneficial to both of us if you were to stay out here and… er… keep watch," he instructed. Andryk crossed his arms.

"Ye want me out o'the picture is what yer sayin'."

"No! Well… I've got this lead, Andryk. It won't be enough, I can assure you that."

With a sigh, Andryk uncrossed his arms. "Fine, ye coot. I'll go sniffin' around some more."

"Very well."

* * *

 _ **Addendum: I feel like the writing in this chapter is very messy, and I apologize for that. In my defense, my brain was being fried by a fever while I wrote this.**_


	10. Chapter 10 - Split Paths: Andryk pt-II

The day had nearly settled to dusk. Andryk had interrogated every villager he could, and the information he had managed to collect thus far was meager. But from what he could tell, there was no monster. It was becoming more and more likely that the disappearances were the result of some curse. Just his luck—Andryk knew fuck all about curses and how to reverse them. Best to consult that old dob Codren later.

While waiting for the mage to return, Andryk wandered back to his horse and began rummaging through his bags. Perhaps there was help to be found in one of the notebooks the grandmaster had written about various forms of magic. Undevar had been quite insistent that he take them before heading out; he'd looked Andryk dead in the eye as he pressed them into the young witcher's hands, saying, "Don't argue. Just take them."

Rummaging through the yellowed pages, Andryk skimmed boredly over the words. Magic was absolutely dull. And these words—"Conjunction of Spheres," "Chaos"—what did they even mean?

Andryk shut the book. He became instantly aware of an approaching presence and looked up to see a tiny figure slowly hobbling towards him. It was that tiny rat of a dog that he'd encountered earlier, no doubt here for another morsel. Andryk felt a tinge of annoyance, but it was quickly washed away when he saw the dog's scraggly tail wagging as best it could. The witcher crouched down and offered an extended hand as the dog drew near. Immediately, she rested her chin in Andryk's hand and let out a content huff of air, her tail still swinging.

"Ye gettin' along fine? Gotta place fer the night?" The summer nights were usually warm, but Andryk couldn't help but wonder how that sparse, patchy coat held up against the cool air. The dog stared back with her wide brown eyes. Her dry nose blew warm air onto the witcher's bare palm. She was a sweet thing, but she was hideous. Her skin sunk into her thin, angular frame. There was a bulbous wart on her maw right next to her nostril. A long stretch of dry, scaly skin on her neck was covered in clusters of dried blood, no doubt the result of incessant scratching.

Andryk rubbed her chin. The dog's eyes became hooded and content. "That's it. Who's a bonnie lil'lass?" he murmured to her. He straightened up to retrieve the small, smoked body of some sort of game fowl he'd hunted a few days ago. When the bird was set in front of the dog, she dropped down onto the ground and held it down with a paw while she delicately pulled away strips of flesh. Andryk returned to his rations bag. It was starting to grow empty. He generally didn't like the idea of using up precious crowns on food, but now he was willing if it meant the little one wouldn't have to go without.

"Have you any new information?" Andryk nearly jumped out of his skin at Codren's sudden inquiry. How the old codger managed to evade even his witcher senses was beyond him. The dog lifted her head at the mage's sudden appearance, a string of meat hanging from her mouth. With a roll of her tongue, she pulled the meat in. She sprung up and, with the bird carcass tightly in her jaws, retreated into the darkness.

Whirling around, Andryk confronted Codren. "Quit slinkin' around like some soft-footed fox! Yer fixin' te send this lad te an early grave like that!"

"Nonsense, I'm sure you heard me coming from a mile away," the mage replied nonchalantly, scratching the edge of his eyebrow with a finger. "Well, Andryk? The night is well upon us. Untie your horse and we can discuss our findings in my tower."

Andryk looked over the cottage rooftops and spotted the slanting tower in the distance, a grimace on his face. It was amazing how the tower seemed to perfectly resemble the stature of is owner. He didn't exactly cherish the idea of going into that rickety-looking thing, especially since the mage's tower was likely to be filled with magic… things. But Codren was already heading towards it, oblivious to the witcher's discomfort. Grudgingly, Andryk followed with his horse's reins in his hand.

For a while, neither spoke. Silence was not something Andryk liked to be acquainted with. And besides, he was curious as to why this continental was in Skellige. "What's a soft-hide like ye doin' on the isles anyway?" he asked.

"Soft-hide? That's a new one," Codren mumbled. "I can't imagine what welcome Niyette and Theila received here."

"Theila?" Andryk repeated the familiar name. "Ye know her?"

"Well of course! I was there when the first traces of her gift began to show as a young child. She was a brilliant student, absolutely brilliant. And when it was her turn, she became a mentor as phenomenal as her own mistress. The academy was sad to see her go when she made the decision to…" The old mage droned on and on, and Andryk yawned. He humored himself by making a mental note that if he ever found himself with a bit of insomnia, he could very well call upon Codren and prompt one of his dull anecdotes.

He returned to present day just as Codren's voice became somber and quiet. "Then there was that controversy with the witcher school," he murmured, as if talking to himself.

"What was that?" Andryk prompted.

"Oh, no, nothing," the mage dismissed. "Just a batch of sour rumors. Theila became very involved with Skellige and chose to remain on the isles, which, of course, baffled us all. The place was dreadful—oh," Codren said quickly. "I didn't mean to say… well, _different._ Different is what I meant to say. What a silly slip of the tongue."

Andryk let out a grunt, but said nothing else.

"I heard word that she began working closely with a witcher in Ard Skellig. Nothing too unusual, of course. Still, I cannot help but wonder. The last letter she sent me was quite peculiar. In it, she told me that she had important matters with the grandmaster of your Bear guild."

 _I knew she was the grandmaster's hen_ , Andryk thought.

"Ah, here we are!" Codren said as they drew closer to the tower. It looked much, much worse up close. It was like every piece of stone and wood was on the verge of falling apart, meekly held together by invisible strings. Andryk looked around as Codren busied himself with unlocking the wooden door with a simple key. "Pretty lax security," he noted. "Ye not worried someone might be curious te see how much coin a sorcerer's got?"

The lock clicked as Codren turned the key. "Certainly not. We've passed through about a dozen protective spells, all rather lethal. I wouldn't quite recommend approaching this tower without my invitation, good witcher." Codren pushed the door open and stepped in.

Andryk hesitated outside. "Where do I tie up the horse?" he asked.

"Do you expect it to wander?"

"It's a horse."

"Just bring it in with you," the mage said with a wave of his hand, and then disappeared entirely into the tower. Andryk frowned at the absurdity. He followed Codren in, his horse just barely able to fit through the door. "Yer not squeamish 'bout a little mud tracked in?"

"It'll take but a second to clean up." Right. _Magic_.

Andryk's bright eyes flitted around as he took in his outlandish surroundings. On the left, next to a messy bookcase, was a round table. It was just large enough to hold a tea set. The teapot whined and its spout spewed steam like a kettle, and a spoon swirled round in a teacup on its own. Beside the table, an entire wall and corner of the room was covered in grass and shrubbery as though a small plot of forest had been stuffed into the tower. Tree branches even grew from the walls. Turning his head, Andryk looked towards the source of a faint dripping noise. A series of glass flasks and interconnecting tubes—some sort of bizarre alchemy instrument—held colored liquids. Drip by drip, the liquids passed through the tubes, sometimes defying gravity by going up through loops. Each time they passed a loop, the drops changed color.

Blinking, Andryk tore his eyes away from the instrument and looked down to see a tortoiseshell cat staring up at him. The cat regarded him with indifferent eyes for another second, and then casually slipped between his legs and disappeared into the foliage in the corner.

Opening his mouth, Andryk blurted out, "What the hell is wrong with this place?"

"My thoughts exactly whenever I leave the tower and head out into that dreary world outside," Codren's voice replied, faint. The mage was nowhere to be seen. However, his voice seemed to come from the top of a flight of carpeted stairs. "Make yourself at home, witcher. I shall be right down with you once I find this blasted thing."

Still holding onto the reins of his horse, Andryk cautiously made his way to the small, round table with the tea set. He inspected the cup for a moment, and then gave the stirring spoon a curious poke. Immediately, the spoon flew up, throwing out droplets of tea, and whapped him across the knuckles. Andryk let out a stifled cry as he quickly withdrew his hand and glared at the spoon, which had resumed its stirring. "What the fuck?" He looked over at the horse. It had started grazing at the grass. Yanking the reins up, Andryk scolded, "Don't eat that! It's not right!"

He heard the scuffling of feet, and then Codren's voice. "Oh no, that's perfectly natural," the mage assured as he appeared with a tattered brown book. Andryk heard him mutter something incoherent, and then Codren tapped the little table with the end of his staff. The table quickly stretched out into a rectangle, leaving plenty of space for the book that was set down. Andryk stared at the table with a disapproving frown. He badly wanted to run out of the tower and return to a world where things made sense.

"I recall that you asked me why I had come to Skellige," Codren began. Andryk watched as Codren opened the book and began flipping through its worn pages. "I deliberately avoided that question while we were still in the village. I couldn't answer in front of the villagers—too many ears, and many of them untrustworthy, I suspect."

"Ye think there's somethin' rotten about them?"

"The reason I've come here," Codren explained, "is because I've been tracking a string of cases. Care to hazard a guess about what I've discovered?"

Andryk shrugged. "How te creep out strangers with yer weird, hocus-pocus shite?"

"Weird? I see you've a disdain for efficiency, dear witcher," Codren replied. "Now, pay attention. I believe I am hot on the trail of the practicing of dark rituals."

"Evil worshipping?"

"That's what I suspect. A cult—followers of the baleful deity Svalblod."

Andryk scoffed. "If I were a god with a name that bleedin' stupid, I'd go bad too."

Codren had learned to ignore Andryk's snide remarks. He stopped at a page with an intricate symbol drawn on it—Svalblod's mark. "The worshipping of this deity is strictly forbidden," Codren explained. "Their practices include heinous sacrifices, brutal even by Skelligan standards. When the king passed the decree that banned the worship of Svalblod, all members of the cult were captured and persecuted. Supposedly."

So the mage suspected an ancient cult. That could explain the disappearances—victims being snatched up for ritualistic sacrifices. But how exactly did black magic tie in? "What kind o'rituals are we talkin' about?"

"I'm not sure. I've never seen any solid evidence of this cult, much less their rituals."

"Ye fuckin' with me? Ye been chasin' a fairytale all this way?"

"I think I've finally got it this time. My talk with the woman today confirmed it." At this point, Andryk was fully intent on leaving. This codger was wasting his time. "She told me people disappeared infrequently, but enough times for people to start noticing a pattern. And whenever someone vanished, a horrible smell would linger in the air for several days. It might have to do with—where are you going?" Andryk had grabbed his horse and was headed for the door.

"I've sat in this madbox long enough. Sittin' here and gettin' an earful o'yer ramblin' isn't doin' shite."

"Bloody Skelligans," he heard the mage mutter angrily. "Got about as much patience as brain matter." Shouting to Andryk, he said, "At least leave your horse here as you investigate! It's not safe out there for animals!"

Andryk slowed, and then stopped in his tracks as he thought of the stray dog. "Meanin' what?"

"Animals disappear first," Codren said. "Then, if there are none left, people."

Andryk turned back to the mage, a demand for an explanation on his tongue. But he quickly changed his mind. He left his horse behind as he raced out of the tower and back into the village. Night had settled a thick stillness over the quiet houses. In the tall grass, the trilling of nocturnal insects floated through the air. Andryk veered off the path and searched any narrow alleyway or dark corner he could find, trying to find the small, bony shape. He never did.

Instead, he found the small, crushed remains of a bird carcass. Andryk crouched down to inspect it. Something large—a man's foot—had stepped on it. The witcher's eyes swept over the ground next to the bits of bone. Deep lines in the dirt implied that a four-legged creature had been dragged, but struggled. As Andryk followed the messy tracks, he spotted dark dots staining the ground. Human blood. The little lass fought back with her teeth. But what followed the blood were more footprints. Her abductors hauled her up and carried her in a way where she wouldn't be able to resist.

But the men had left a clear trail for the witcher to follow. It led him to one of the homes. Approaching slowly, Andryk surveyed the house. It looked completely ordinary—nothing about it stuck out and nothing implied any funny business. Earlier that day, when he had been asking around, no one had answered in this house.

Andryk crept up to the door and tilted an ear towards it. He thought the heard the faint murmur of voices, but they were far too muffled to be coming from within the house. As he reached forward to try the door, a sharp, repulsive smell hit him. The witcher turned away as though he had been struck, letting out a rattled breathe of air as he tried to relief himself from the awful stench.

A horrible smell… just as Codren had described. Andryk recomposed himself and, fighting the urge to vomit, breathed the stink in to find its source. It had none. It was as if the smell had covered the entire village like a thick fog. But the footprints had led here.

Andryk turned the knob and found the door locked. No problem. With a little convincing, the defeated door swung open. Andryk stepped over the wooden splinters and glanced around inside the house, one hand gripping the sword hilt over his shoulder. It was dark and empty. The distant whispering was still there, though there was not a soul in sight.

Then, a louder voice. "What are you doing here?"

The witcher flinched and drew his sword in a single, swift movement. "Stop it!" he hissed at the mage that had appeared in the doorway. "Why don't ye stay in that kooky lil'tower o'yers and stop followin' me!"

"I detected the stench. It's just as that woman told me." It was hard thing to miss. "Now what are you doing? This is trespassing!"

"They're here. I know it," Andryk insisted, looking around. "I'm hearin' voices from somewhere."

"Perhaps from the depths of your own mind?" Codren quietly suggested in a snarky voice. "I hear nothing but the crickets outside."

"That's 'cause ye've got ears as dull as that walkin' stick," Andryk grumbled back as he walked over to a wooden desk in the corner of the room. His eyes traced the scrape marks that ran over the wood. He grabbed the edge of the desk and dragged it away from the corner with a harsh yank. Nearly invisible seams ran through the wood planks, outlining the edges of a trapdoor. Andryk crouched down and found the groove with which to open the door. As soon as the trapdoor opened a crack, he received a blow to the face of concentrated stench. Dropping the door back, the witcher rested his arm on his knee and turned his head to the side.

"What's wrong?" Codren asked, hurrying over.

Andryk gave a firm shake of his head. "It's like the king o'mucky knickers lives down there."

"I suppose it's times like these when having a keen nose poses a disadvantage," Codren mused. "Andryk, we are at the cusp of discovering the existence of an ancient cult! Hurry up and open the door!"

"When did this turn into some kind o'archeological trip fer ye?" Andryk let out a sharp huff to steel his resolve, and then flung the trapdoor open. He heard the voices become louder, though their words were still muddled. "Whatever's down there isn't gonna be too glad te see us," he warned Codren. "Best te keep behind me and watch yerself." With the sword gripped tightly, the dropped down into the dark space. He heard the mage drop down behind him and began quietly creeping down the tunnel. It only took a few steps for the voices to become clearer. Andryk realized why he hadn't been able to understand them—they'd been chanting in some strange tongue.

"What're they sayin'?" Andryk whispered to Codren. They were near enough for the mage to hear the voices.

Codren paused to listen to the strange chanting. " _Unto him we deliver flesh_ ," the mage translated. After another moment of listening, he continued, " _To devour, to twist_."

"Lovely," Andryk mumbled as he began to move forward again. The tunnel finally yawned wide into an empty cavern. Torches along the wall did little to lift the darkness and sent long shadows flickering on the floor and walls. As Andryk peeked around the mouth of the tunnel, he spotted a large relief carved into the wall. It was the same symbol that Codren had shown from his book.

"Looks like it was yer mad worshippers after all," the witcher muttered over his shoulder. He tiptoed into the chamber and realized that it wasn't as empty as he had thought. Underneath the deity symbol was a stone alter that was about as long as a human body. And that was exactly what lay on top of it. Well, what _used_ to be one. Andryk walked up to the alter to examine the corpse. It was horribly disfigured, literally twisted in the most gut-wrenching ways as described in the chanting. The body's chin and lower lip were stretched down and fused with the skin on the chest so that the lower teeth were exposed. The top of the skull had swollen immensely so that the eyes bulged from the head. One of the eyes had been squeezed out from the socket and dangled by a cord above the ear. One of the arms had bloated into rotting bags of flesh, and extra, underdeveloped fingers sprouted from the puffy wrist. The corpse's original fingers had elongated with knobby joints. The fingernails had grown into black, curved talons. Andryk glanced over the rest of the body. No inch had been spared from the abhorrent disfigurations.

"Andryk," he heard Codren hiss. The witcher glanced over at him. The mage indicated towards something. He directed his eyes towards that something and spotted several figures in the dark end of the cave: a handful of men and women standing silently as they watched him. He then realized that the chanting had stopped.

"Cozy lil'place ye got here," Andryk greeted as he flexed his fingers over the sword hilt. "I'm actually into freaky, radge shite me-self. How do I join?"

The cultists said nothing. Andryk heard a faint rumbling coming from beside him. As he turned his head, that rumbling quickly escalated into a guttural wail. An engorged arm flew up and swiped a deep cut along the side of his face. The witcher let out a startled cry and leapt backward, sword raised. The mutilated sacrifice pushed itself upright and emerged from the altar. He heard the similar dragging of flesh and spotted movement around the edges of the cavern. Other sacrifices, discarded around the chamber, began to rise. The cultists began to grow aggravated.

"Heads up," Andryk warned to Codren, his eyes trained on the shambling flesh. It stumbled towards him. Andryk sidestepped, his blade lagging behind to drag across the sacrifice's flesh. Deep purple, tubular intestines spilled out and curled on the floor.

"Deal with those fiendish things, Andryk. I'll handle the cult members," was Codren's reply.

"Oh _sure_. That's fair," Andryk mumbled sarcastically to himself as his eyes darted quickly around the cavern to get a count on the sacrifices. There were four others slowly converging onto him. The one beside him quickly whirled around and swung its claws. Andryk strafed back from its reach, but couldn't avoid the splatter of blood that gushed from the sacrifice's gaping wound.

With the back of his hand, Andryk brushed the dark blood from his lips and beard. When the wounded sacrifice came at him again, the witcher charged forward himself and slammed into the creature. As it stumbled back, Andryk brought the broadsword up. The blade entered from underneath the armpit, cut upwards diagonally across the chest, and came free at the opposite shoulder. The slanted torso and lower body fell apart and hit the ground at the same time.

Andryk heard another sacrifice coming up behind him. He hauled his sword up in an upward arc, turned, and brought it down. The sword found contact with the sacrifice's bulbous shoulder, the weight and momentum lodging the blade all the way down to its belly. Under the force of the blow, the sacrifice was forced down onto its crooked knees. It let out a haunting groan.

He made quick work of the other mutants. Finally, the last one collapsed at the witcher's feet, the top half of its head hitting the ground with a sickening splat. Andryk, breathing heavily, looked to Codren. The cult members were dead—some had charred black skin; others were nothing but piles of ash. The mage himself was at the far end of the cave, at the foot of a large bear statue. It was the first time Andryk had noticed the statue, now that he didn't have hostile piles of nightmarish flesh to pay attention to.

"Andryk," he heard the mage say, his voice solemn. "There's another one here."

He hurried to the bear statue. At its base, Andryk spotted a small figure lying there. He already knew what it was before he got there. Stopping in front of the small figure, Andryk returned his sword to its sheath and crouched down. He heard the weak, ragged breaths and watched the body rise up and down rapidly. Reaching out, Andryk gently stroked the clumpy fur. "It'll be okay, lil'lass," he assured quietly. To Codren, he asked, "Is there anything ye can do?"

"The curse's mutations are mild, and fairly new," Codren diagnosed. "Let's take it back to my tower, and then I'll see what I can do."

Gently, Andryk lifted her up and carried her out. As they returned to the mouth of the tunnel, Andryk turned back to the cavern and spat on the ground in the direction of Svalblod's symbol. "Piece o'shite," he said bitterly.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Codren asked.

"What's he goin' te do? Give me a name that sounds as dumb as his?"

* * *

Codren had managed to reverse some, but not all, of the dark god's mutations. What was left did not seem to hinder the dog at all. As Andryk dragged the boat onto shore, the other two witchers watched as the dog sat contently, her tongue dangling out of her mouth. One side of her face had swollen, causing one eye to bulb out. That eye was completely black. On the other side of her face, a few of the teeth on the upper side of her jaw had elongated, poking out from beneath her lips. Her coat, now much more healthy, contained bald patches where the skin bubbled up in scaly boils. From the back of one of her hind legs, a tiny, underdeveloped fifth limb poked out.

When the boat was completely out of the water, Andryk patted his thigh and gave a shrill whistle. "Come on, Aegis. Out ye get." The dog rose and hopped out onto the sand. Her bare, rat-like tail wagged happily as Andryk gave her uneven head a ruffle. "Good lass! That's a good dog!"

"That's not a dog," Oslan mumbled to Kozin. "That's nature playing a prank." Kozin smirked.

"Oi, shut yer arse!" Andryk snapped. "Ye got no idea what the poor thing's gone through!"

"All right, simmer down," Oslan said. "Sorry. It was just a little… shocking to see."

When they walked beyond the stony walls of the school, Aegis received a similar reception from the rest of the witchers. Many, upon first seeing the dog, had thought she was a nekker. Even Undevar looked down at her with raised eyebrows, the first words out of his mouth being, "What's wrong with it?"

It didn't matter, though. Andryk knew her story. There was nothing wrong with her. In fact, she looked much better than when he'd first seen her. She was healthier. Happier. That's what mattered.

That night, when the rest of the guild had quieted down, Andryk sat on the sill of a large, open window. A tankard was in his hand. Aegis hopped up onto the sill beside him. He offered her the tankard, to which she gave a curious sniff and lied down. She rested her chin on his lap, her eyes drooping when the witcher massaged her head. Hanging down from the sill, her naked tail wagged.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: If you were eating during this chapter... I'm not sorry.**_


	11. Chapter 11 - Split Paths: Oslan pt-I

Heaving a sigh, Oslan tossed another stone and watched it clatter down the hillside. It was times like these when he really missed those two morons. Nothing happened on Spikeroog. There was just the occasional sailor asking him to clear a nest of sirens or drowners from their shipping route.

Andryk and Kozin, they'd probably be pulling their hair out with frustration. Where were all the dangerous contracts? The exciting, bloodthirsty monsters? To be honest, that wasn't what bothered Oslan.

He'd been in a village earlier—Svorlag, if he recalled correctly. He hadn't gone there to look for work, but rather to rest his feet. His horse was gone, given to Kozin after the black-haired witcher had lost his in the Coille na Draíocht. Svorlag was small but lively, an oasis of teeming life on an otherwise bleak island. Oslan had deliberately avoided any tavern or inn—he wasn't quite ready to be surrounded by people again just yet. A barrel on an empty dock proved to be a peaceful little spot for the travel-worn witcher. The silence was refreshing, and the gentle slapping of water on the gravelly shore reminded him of home. There were only two other people nearby, and it wasn't long before Oslan focused his attention on them. They were several yards further up the shore, but Oslan could observe them just as well as if they were right next to him.

It was a man and his son. The father was teaching the child how to tie proper knots for sailing. He gently guided the boy through the slips and loops, and praised him when he finally achieved the knot. Oslan watched them, his brow clenched into a small frown.

He hadn't realized this part about himself until now. Kozin and Andryk had always been there to make him feel better, to distract him from how he truly felt. But there was no denying it now. He never wanted this. He never asked to be dumped onto the island. He never asked to be dragged to that cliff and be changed into something that could never be normal again.

But then again, neither did any witcher. But at least Kozin and Andryk had been given the privilege and seeing their parents hand them over. Oslan had never seen his parents. The Law of Surprise promised him to the school; a newborn snatched as soon as it had taken its first breath.

 _Normal_ —how did such a harmless word seem so cruel? It mocked him, taunting him with what had been stolen from him before he had even left the womb. And he'd never be able to get it back, not when he couldn't look people in the eyes without having them reel back from his.

Oslan tore his envious glare from the father and son. He stood, slinging his pack over his shoulder, and headed back into Svorlag. Almost immediately, he was greeted by a man rushing up to him, crying out, "Witcher! Please, I need your help!"

The mournful thoughts that had been brooding in Oslan's head were pushed to the back. "What's wrong?"

"It's my daughter," the man said, his voice soft with panic. "She hasn't been seen since dawn."

"It's only a little past midday," Oslan pointed out.

"She's awfully shy, never strays too far from the house," the man said. "She told her mother she'd be reading in the barn. We searched the barn, searched the entire village! She's been taken, my little Arda!"

"It'll be okay," Oslan reassured. "Tell me what you can, and I'll get her back. Who could have taken her? Anyone here with a grudge against you?"

"Nay, nay, it's not been like that. She's been taken to Melusine! I'm sure of it!"

"Who is that?"

The man pointed to the path that trailed from the village and up the mountain. "There's a mess of caves on the other side of the mountain," he explained. "Folks say there lives a dark goddess. She'd swoop down, and the last thing the sorry bastard sees is her black wings. People started getting radge with fear, and some crazies started the habit of bringing live offerings up to her caves to keep her from the village. That's where they've taken her, witcher! Please, I'm begging you! Don't let Melusine take my Arda!"

"Calm yourself," Oslan said, his eyes rising up along the path. "Melusine…"

"What of her?"

"I'm no expert on the divine, but I'm sure goddesses don't eat people." He quickly reflected back on what the man had told him. Large wings. And she nested in a seaside cave. He figured he knew what this 'goddess' was. "I'll go up the mountain. Stay here, and await my return."

The trek up the mountain was a long one. Svorlag was nestled comfortably against the base of the mountain where the sea caressed the rocks. Oslan's legs tirelessly carried him up the ascending path. The sack with his potions and supplies bounced against his back as he weaved through the jagged terrain. While he climbed, he spotted the disturbed dirt, the upturned pebbles, that told him someone had been here recently.

The whistling of wind racing through caves met his ears. Voices. And a shrieking girl. Oslan quickened his pace. He came around a large boulder and saw them.

The path wrapped inwards towards the center of the mountain and ended abruptly in a cliff. There were three men at the edge of the cliff. One of them was bent down, fastening the ropes that tied a young girl to a wooden post. The other two were peering at the cluster of caves that dotted the mountainside. "Melusine!" one called out. "We bring an offering to satiate your hunger! Take it, and leave the village in peace!"

The one tying the ropes heard Oslan's approached and spotted the witcher. He alerted the other two. They all turned to face him, their faces cold. "Oi, Cat-Eyes! Leave us to our business! This is for the good of the village!"

"You're all fools!" Oslan growled back. "Can't you see your Melusine is nothing but a—." A deep rustling and low-pitched snarl emitted from the caves, echoing in the tunnels. Fear replaced the hostile expressions of the men as they looked over to the caves.

"There she is! She's emerging! Fucking go!" one of them bellowed to his paralyzed companion, giving him a harsh shove. They bolted, shoving past Oslan as the witcher rushed forward. Drawing the silver sword, he quickly cut the girl's ropes with the tip of his blade. Just as the ropes slacked and her wrists came free, Oslan saw a black streak shoot from a cave. It flew high up into the air and then slowed, throwing its wide wings open and engulfing the entire cliff in shadow.

Arda looked up at it in horror. Oslan kept his eyes lowered, instead staring at the girl. It was a ploy that clever winged monsters often used—to trick one into looking up at them. When the creature commenced its attack, it would fold its wings in and allow the sun to blind its prey.

Instead, he listened to Melusine circling above, pinpointing her location in sky through the flapping of wind against her wings and her rough breathing.

Oslan reached down and pulled the girl up. "Don't look at it," he warned her. "Just run. Go!" He stepped aside and Arda darted away. He heard the swoosh of wind as Melusine quickly changed her course. It was clear that she was not going to let her offering get away. With his other hand, Oslan reached behind to the crossbow on his back.

There was a loud crash as Melusine landed on the path, blocking the girl. Loosened rubble was sent clattering down the mountainside. Arda screamed. A clawed hand swiped at her and missed as Oslan pulled her back. Yanking the girl behind him, Oslan quickly raised the crossbow and fired. The bolt embedded itself deep into the shoulder, and Melusine howled.

Now that they were practically face-to-face, Oslan's suspicions were confirmed. Melusine was an ekhidna.

He'd never seen an ekhidna until now. Back at the school, he'd been told that ekhidnas were a variant of sirens. When asked what the difference between the two was, Master Brimir had replied, "An ekhidna is like a siren when you've told her that her sister is prettier."

Thick blood trickled down Melusine's pale shoulder. She let out another screech and launched herself back into the air. The gust of wind she left in her wake slapped Oslan, forcing him to shield his face. He quickly recovered and pulled another bolt from the strap on his chest. "Stay close to me," he told Arda, cocking back the crossbow's drawstring. She didn't need to be told twice and cowered behind him. Oslan stared at the glittering water in the distance as he listened to the sounds of Melusine's flight. She was circling above them, waiting for the girl to become vulnerable again.

Oslan shut his eyes, letting his breaths become long and slow as he strained his ears. He honed in on the sound of her wings pushing the air, timing her spirals. Then, in a quick motion, he raised the crossbow and fired. He heard the drawstring reverberating, the bolt slicing through the air, and, finally, the sound of struck flesh. Melusine let out a pained scream and began to descend. She landed on the cliff, her large tail snapping the wooden post and knocking it over the edge. Oslan knew she would only be in this vulnerable state for a few precious seconds. He flew towards her, closing the distance between them in a flash, and struck a deep slash across her collarbones with his silver sword. Her furious cry pierced his ears. He wasted no time and smashed the pommel of his weapon against her flat, bat-like snout.

The ekhidna rebounded incredibly quickly from the blow and swiped at the witcher with the long talons at the end of her wing. Oslan raised his blade and swiftly parried, throwing her claws back. In a flash, he sunk his blade into her torso.

Melusine pulled back, freeing her body from the burning silver, and returned to the air. Oslan had succeeded in giving her a few good wounds, but she showed no sign of fatigue. The crossbow returned to the witcher's hands. A few more rounds of this, and the ekhidna was bound to become weak enough to finally kill.

But Mesuline was learning. She wasn't about to give Oslan another chance with the crossbow. She quickly dove down in front of the two and blew a powerful torrent of wind at them with a stroke of her wings. Oslan steeled himself enough to only stumble back a few steps. He noticed Arda at the very last moment as she was thrown back. Oslan grabbed for her, but she hit the mountainside, bounced forward, and teetered over the edge of the path. Diving forward onto his stomach, Oslan shot a hand out and caught the girl by her wrist before she fell down onto the rocks below. He began to pull her up, slowly raising himself up from the edge of the path, when suddenly a searing, fiery pain shot through his abdomen. A shuddering cry escaped Oslan as the pain squeezed the very air from his lungs. He slammed back against the rock as Melusine's long talon pinned him against the ground like an insect. He felt the monster's hot, rancid breath against the back of his neck. Suddenly, she latched onto his shoulder and neck with her teeth.

Oslan gritted his teeth, his sight blurred from the tears that welled in his eyes. He swung his arm in a wide arc and threw Arda back onto the path. Then, with his free hand, he reached back and grabbed a fistful of the short fur on Melusine's head. He ripped his arm away as hard as he could, feeling flesh and fur come away in his hand.

The ekhidna released her jaws from his flesh to screech. She quickly scurried off of him and dove back into the air. Oslan unclenched his jaw and screamed as he felt the burning of her talon leaving his stomach. His hand scrabbled for the crossbow. With a tense groan, the witcher staggered to his feet as Melusine circled around for him. He weakly raised the crossbow, but it was too late. The ekhidna flew into him, slamming him against the mountainside. He felt her clawed hands dig into his flesh. She pulled him away from the wall. Oslan's boots dragged momentarily against the ground, and then dangled helplessly in the air. Oslan saw the mountainside, the path, and Arda, begin to grow smaller as Melusine carried him through the air.

Whatever this bitch had planned for him, it wasn't going to happen. He knew that for certain. From a small sheath on the front of his shoulder, Oslan pulled a saw-toothed bone dagger. Again and again, he struck at any flesh he could reach. Most of his stabs were rendered useless by the ekhidna's tough hide, though some managed to draw blood. Out of the corner of his eye, Oslan saw that they were headed towards the open sea. Melusine was trying to take him out to the water where she could drown him.

His arm shot up and grabbed hers. He pulled himself up closer to her and stabbed again. The blade sunk into its target—the thin, rubbery skin of her wing. Melusine yowled her protest. The blade was pulled down, dragging a growing tear through the membrane. Shrieking, the ekhidna finally decided that this witcher was more trouble than he was worth. The tightness of her claws in his skin vanished as she released him.

Oslan felt his stomach fly up to his throat as he plummeted away from the shadowy figure. His limp body flipped over and over again, and he caught glimpses of the rocky shore that awaited him. He hadn't timed his escape properly, and now he was going to pay for it. In that small bit of infinity before he hit the ground, he wondered whether he'd see his brothers again.

Fate was kind to him. When he finally reached the ground, his body was oriented upward, as though he were standing. The bottom of his right foot was the first to meet the wet rocks. The shock traveled up through his leg, and his femur took the brunt of it. Then, the rest of his body came crashing down. He tumbled a short distance across the jagged shore and came to a slow stop. He was facing upwards. The sky was clear above him. No ekhidna in sight. He couldn't hear her, but that was because he heard nothing but his dull heartbeat and labored breathing. The small tide pools around him were quickly becoming saturated in red.

His hand fumbled to the open wound in his stomach where Melusine had skewered him. He had to close it. Otherwise it would be the end of him.

Oslan strenuously pushed himself up, grinding his teeth together as the pain in his stomach became nearly unbearable. Propped up, he looked down at the wound. The ragged edges of his torn tunic were soaked and stuck to his skin. As he gave another shuddering exhale, a gush of blood erupted from the wound and quickly spread into the already-darkened cloth.

As he shifted his body to reach for the hem of his tunic, a new pain coursed through his body. This one came from his right leg. He couldn't move it. Oslan raised himself up higher and saw the rough, white tip of broken bone jutting out from his crooked leg, right above the knee. His breathing became more haggard as a tiny part of his mind wondered how he was going to survive like this. He wasn't.

Oslan cast the thoughts from his head as he once again reached down for the hem and tore off a large chunk of cloth. He balled the cloth in his trembling fist. And then he hesitated despite the fact that he knew he was dying. Through his light-headedness, he grew weary. He was afraid of the pain he knew would soon follow. But with one last clench of the cloth, he quickly readied himself and reached down to the wound.

Even the lightest touch sent torrents of pain coursing through his body. In sharp, jolting movements, Oslan started shoving the cloth into the open wound. He couldn't prevent the manifestations of that fiery, white-hot pain from escaping his lips as he continued to cram the cloth into his stomach. The blackness that had lingered around the edge of his vision began to creep in, and a high-pitched whine filled his ears. He'd only just pushed the last bit of cloth into the wound when his consciousness finally slipped and he fell limp against the wet rocks.

* * *

"Mince and bull!" a Bear witcher cried as he wiped the beer foam from his lip. "There's no way you survived something like that, 'less you're exaggerating or talking out your arse!"

Oslan, on the other side of the table, glared at the witcher. "I'm telling it as it happened!" he argued. "I didn't make a shred of it up!" He looked around him to get backing from his friends. Only Andryk was there. "Where did Ko dally off to?" The red-haired man shrugged.

"I'm telling you, you wouldn't have gotten back from that even if you guzzled down a whole barrel of swallow!"

"I commend you for such sharp thinking in that moment of desperation. Not many would think to pack their own wound. Keep in mind, a witcher's life does not solely balance on potions," came Undevar's quiet voice from where he sat at the long table. "Knowledge of basic aid is invaluable." The tip of Aegis's nose appeared above the table next to the grandmaster, and then her entire warped face surfaced as she sniffed at his plate. Undevar gently pushed her down and continued, "And despite that, I lament that even some of our esteemed masters have terrible grasps on the art of healing." Alarmed faces turned to him. Undevar met the eyes of one Master Galon. "It should be multiple compressions, not one great one."

* * *

 _ **Addendum: It took everything within me not to rewrite the part where Oslan hits the ground and make him sit up, hold his fucked-to-high-hell leg, and go, "SSSSS... AAAHHHH" like in Family Guy.**_


	12. Chapter 12 - Split Paths: Oslan pt-II

_**Good luck.**_

* * *

He became vaguely aware of pressure on his body. It wasn't a crushing pressure, but it was unpleasant. As Oslan's senses began returning to him, he heard the soft sound of approaching footsteps. Sniffling—someone was crying. Oslan felt more pressure weigh on top of him. He managed to open his eyes into slits and saw a blurry figure. They were gently stooped over him, pouring something from their arms onto him. From they way they clattered and felt on him, he guessed they were rocks.

He couldn't do anything as the rocks continued to tumble over him. The only thing he could do was listen to the soft crying of the person standing over him, which was starting to get clearer by the moment. It was a girl. But who? He could hardly remember where he was or why his body was entrapped with such dull pain.

Then, one of the rocks fell from the pile on his chest and landed on a certain spot on his stomach. Fresh, jolting pain coursed through his nerves. Yet still his body refused to move. All he could manage was a soft groan.

There was a yelp, and he saw the blurry figure above him disappear. A rock, kicked up from her heel, bounced off of his face. He twitched a finger. Then his whole arm managed to stir as he moved his elbow. Slowly, he began regaining his consciousness and mobility. Oslan turned his head and saw the girl standing a short distance away, watching him with wide eyes. He remembered her: Arda. Memories returned to him. There had been the fight with the ekhidna… and he'd ended up like this.

Oslan's dry lips parted, but he found no strength to push words through them. He moved his arm again. This time, he was able to lift it from the ground. Slowly, he brought his hand up to his stomach and pushed the stone off. The shift of his shoulder caused the pile on his chest to become imbalanced. Arda's hands flew up to her mouth as the pile grew unstable. She threw her arms out as if to try and catch the tumbling rocks, even though she was still several paces away.

The loosened pile collapsed, rocks spreading out in all directions. Several of them fell on his stomach. This time, Oslan was awake enough to feel the agonizing weight of each and every one of them. With a cry that even the distant, crashing waves failed to drown out, he threw himself onto his side. His left leg curled up in pain and he held a clenched fist to his burning midsection. The girl ran back up to him.

After a few shaking gasps, Oslan relaxed back against the ground. The girl crouched down next to his head. His hooded eyes gazed at her dirty, scuffed shoes. "H… h…" he wheezed, his voice hoarse. "How… long?"

"Bludy 'ell!" the girl gasped. "I thot yer'd be sailin' fer th'othir shores fer sure!" Oslan had to take a moment to translate her thick accent in his mind. She made Andryk sound like a continental.

"How long… have I been like this?" Oslan whispered.

"Nigh tew days since," Arda replied.

"Have you been here this entire time?"

"Nay! After yer'd crumpled on th'grund, I bolted fer 'elp! Shouted aboot a dyin' man on th'shore 'oo needed 'elp! Some men came. Took un look't yer an' shook ther 'eads. Told me 'Arda, darlin', tha's a dead man.' I thot they's right, ther'd so much blud aroond yer!" She paused from her rambling to wipe her wet cheeks. "They left yer 'ere. I culdn't. Thot I'd bury yer, least I culd do."

So they were just planning to leave his body to bloat there on the shore had he really died. The thought didn't exactly delight him. "Next time you plan to bury someone, check to see if they've got no pulse first," Oslan said as he meticulously rolled back onto his back. Everything hurt so much. "It was dangerous for you to come alone."

"Tha's th'thing!" Arda exclaimed. "Mel'sine's gone off! Yer scared 'er off, yer did! Af'er she drupped yer she jus' kept flayin'! Didn't tairn back or noothin'!"

"She won't be gone for long," Oslan croaked. "I wounded her. She's gone off to heal, but she'll be back." And he was lucky that he'd woken up before she came back and finished him off.

Taking a deep breath, he slid his elbows in and pushed himself up. He'd barely risen a hair's length when the pain became more than he could handle. He dropped back, letting out a pitiful whimper that he was glad the others weren't around to hear. Delicately, with a shaking hand, he touched the edge of his stomach wound. The flesh around it felt swollen and hot. It was infected. With their reinforced bodies, witchers rarely suffered from infection. But the unsterilized cloth had been left in for too long. He'd only meant to keep in in for and hour or so, just to stem the bleeding.

Oslan felt Arda's hand gently slip under his shoulder. "Yer need 'elp sittin' oop?"

He gave a single nod, again readying his arm to push him up. "Yeah. Just a little. Just enough so I can see my stomach."

"Is awfy lookin'! An' ther's a rank smell coomin' froom it!"

She was right. The infected wound emitted a putrid stench. Oslan closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He tried to defy the growing voice in his head that told him he was dying. "Help me up." He pushed against the ground, letting out a rigid exhale as he fought through the pain. Arda pulled up on his shoulder. They managed to get him propped on his elbow. Oslan looked down at his stomach and felt light-headed at the sight.

The ring of flesh surrounding the wound had swollen into pale, puffy flesh. Everything else beyond that bore an intense red hue. Within the inflamed wound, Oslan could see the cloth that was still damp with old blood and pus. For a moment, desperation clouded his judgment, and he quickly reached down to tug out the cloth. It wouldn't budge, stuck to his skin and insides with coagulated blood. A horrible, intense pain ripped through him. Oslan grunted through clenched teeth and quickly returned his arm back to the ground to steady himself.

"Wot're yer doin'?" Arda cried.

"I need to get it out… or else it won't heal," Oslan managed to ground from between his teeth.

"Yer can't jus'go poolin' it oot like tha'! It needs stitchin'! An' cleanin'!" She put her hands on Oslan's arm when the witcher began wavering. "We need te get yer te me hoose! Got plen'y o'stuff ther te 'elp yer wit."

"I can't move," Oslan groaned. "My leg…"

Arda glanced at it, but quickly averted her eyes. "I know," she whispered. "I-I…"

"I have… a potion…" Oslan reached up to unbuckle the pack from his chest. Arda helped him pull it out from underneath him. But when he opened the pouch that held his vials, only broken glass and thick liquid oozed out. The witcher's trembling fingers touched the streams of mixed potions as they trickled out of the pouch. What now?

Arda began to cry again. "Yer can't die, sir! Not when yer saved me life!"

The muscles in Oslan's neck tightened as he swallowed. "I'm not going to die, Arda. Don't you worry. I need to set my leg back. Will you help me?"

"S-set yer l-le…" Arda stammered through her tears. She brushed her face with the side of her thumb. "O-okay, I'll 'elp yer. Wha' d-do yer need me te do?"

"Hold onto my leg right underneath the knee." Arda moved so that she could follow his instructions. "Keep a tight grip. Don't let it move." Her tiny hands failed to wrap around his leg, so she held either side of it instead. Oslan pushed himself up to a sitting position, releasing the pain in a controlled groan. He tucked one hand under the crook of his knee, and placed the other on his thigh right below the fracture. He pulled in a couple of quick breaths through his mouth, tightened his jaw, and pushed. Slowly, the bone began to move, producing a nauseating, organic cracking noise.

Oslan had tried to keep silent for Arda's sake, but could not prevent the strangled cry from escaping his lips. He drew in a deep, haggard gasp and held his breath as he continued to push. Tears escaped the corners of his squinted eyes, cutting pale lines through dirt and blood. Arda watched him with eyes wide with concern, but said nothing as she concentrated on keeping his leg steady. With one last agonizing push, the bone was set back in its proper position. Even then, his leg looked anything but proper—the fractured bone had split his leg and trousers open so that even now he could see down to the white of his femur.

He took his hand from his thigh to hold himself up. His head was down, and he gasped down air as he struggled to stay conscious. The pounding of his heart felt as though it were in his throat, choking his breaths.

"Arda… help me up…"

* * *

Their faces were calm, but he could tell from their eyes that they did not cherish the thought of housing a witcher, wounded or not. Arda pleaded with her parents until they finally agreed.

"He stays in the barn," her mother declared.

"Boot _Ma_ —!" Arda argued loudly.

"It's fine. I'm okay with that," Oslan cut in softly. With one arm around the girl, he limped to the small shed behind the house. Once inside the dark, musty building, he collapsed onto the old straw, one arm wrapped protectively over his midsection. He saw Arda quickly dart about—lighting a lantern, shoving wooden crates aside, and pulling out a thick, wooly blanket.

"We used this fer th'cow coom wintertaim," Arda explained in a quick voice as she threw the blanket out and settled it over the witcher. "But she passed arly this munth, so she's got no need fer it naw." Oslan weakly muttered his thanks. Arda paused to examine him. His eyes were drooped, and he looked to be on the verge of falling asleep. That was good. He needed his rest after everything that happened. She'd never seen anyone act so bravely, before and after Melusine had maimed him. The trek back to the village had been a struggle, she could tell. The witcher had tried to appear fine, but she'd heard his labored breathing as they slowly made their way across the shore.

"I'll go an' fatch th'lady froom th'apoth'cairy," Arda offered. "She's bound te got soom 'ealin' hairbs an' a needle kit." Then she realized that he hadn't heard her, as he was fast asleep.

* * *

Opening his eyes, he hadn't even realized that he'd lost consciousness again. Or maybe it'd been a deep sleep; Oslan wasn't sure. He was vaguely aware of the time of day—the scent of morning dew came light and sweet through the open window. Turning his head, he breathed in the delicate, earthy scent and let it clear his woozy head. The pain was rather bearable today. But that could be because he'd just emerged from his slumber.

He remembered the infected wound and cursed himself for not dealing with it before dropping off. Oslan didn't know how long he'd been out this time. He pulled the heavy blanket off with wide sweeps and propped himself up. Underneath the blanket, he found a dressed and closed wound. Surprised, Oslan reached down and traced a stitch with his finger. The swelling had gone down immensely. His leg was bandaged too and smelled of strong herbs.

He heard approaching footsteps. The door creaked open and in stepped Arda hauling a bucket and a pouch. It was only when she'd closed the door and turned that she noticed the glowing pair of eyes watching her. "Oh!" she exclaimed softly. "Yer oop."

"Did you do this?"

"Nay, it was Roselle. She sails hairbs and othir 'gredients at th'poth'cairy. I got 'er te coom 'ere an'patch yer oop," Arda explained as she set the bucket and pouch next to Oslan. A similar smell of herbs came from the pouch. "When she 'ad a gander at yer stoomach an'leg, she shook 'er 'ead. Amazed yer wasn't dead, she was. Said if 'avin' th'blud drained out'er'ya 'adn't killed yer, tha' infection shuld'a."

As she spoke, Oslan watched her. He finally had a chance to really look at her, now that his vision wasn't muddled by pain. She was a plump little child, and she looked to be just over a decade old. Her dark hair hung in limp, unimpressive locks around her round face and her shoulders. She… well, she wasn't ugly, but she was far from impressive-looking. As the thought came to Oslan, he was immediately burdened by guilt. Who was he, with his piercing, inhuman eyes, to judge?

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Roselle said twice a day te warsh yer stoomach wi'clean water an'put clean med'cine over it," Arda replied as she dipped a rag into the bucket.

"Has it just been you tending to me?" Oslan thought back to her parents. It didn't seem likely they would treat him with the same hospitality as their daughter.

"Me mum and da, thar scared o'witchers," Arda said, her voice growing quiet. She began to softly dab at the stitched wound with the wet rag. "A lotto people are. Ther was un a'coople years back. 'E was a scary un—jus'lookin' at 'im tair'fied me. 'E was trayin' te bully free 'gredients out o'Roselle, bein' right awfy to 'er an'anyone 'oo crossed 'is path." Oslan wondered who this witcher might've been. Surely not anyone he knew.

"But yer different," Arda continued, applying the stewed herbs generously over his wound. Oslan noticed a tinge of pink in her cheeks. "Ye's saved me froom tha'crayture. No one's ever doon soom'thin' li'tha fer me." Oslan kept silent, deciding it was best to not mention that her father had requested his service. He wondered how he was going to avoid the awkwardness of having to ask for his payment later. It was not something he wanted to do, but he had himself and the guild to support.

"Can I ask yer soom'thin', witcher sir?"

"Sure," Oslan said. Her father had described her as shy, but right now she seemed particularly chatty. Or maybe it was because she'd never found the right person to talk to until now.

Arda hesitated. Oslan could practically see the thoughts churning in her head. "Do… do yer travel a lot?"

"I do," Oslan answered. "Wouldn't be able to find much work if I stayed in the same place for too long."

"I see," Arda replied softly. She lowered her eyes. "Will yer be leavin' once yer get better?"

"Probably. I'll stay on Spikeroog for a little while, though. Maybe head a little bit south to see what's there."

"Do yer… think yer culd take me wi'yer?"

Oslan met her question with silence. Then, he said, "Why do you want to leave?"

"I jus'… it's a lot te explain…"

"I'm going to be here for a while. You can tell me."

Arda swept a glance over her shoulder at the window and door, and then turned back to Oslan. "Well… I'm not 'appy 'ere."

"Why's that? Your parents?"

"Not jus' tha'… A lotto reasons. Th'othir kids, Clairna 'specially, they dun like me at all. Always teasin' me, shootin' oot awfy things at me. Sayin' things li' 'Oi Arda, yer gotta belly roonder than a sooklin' swine! Shuld be scoffin' out'er trough!' The othir day…" Arda's eyes became glassy. "The othir day, aroond the others, Clairna started shootin' loud'nuff fer th'othirs te 'ear. She's a wee oldair than me, see, an'she was sayin' 'ow once me chest starts growin', they'll look li'potatoes in my potato sack dress. Ther was a boy ther, Frej. I always get a lil'shy 'roond 'im cos 'e's a 'andsoom lad. But when Clairna said tha', 'e was ther laughin' too. I ran in 'ere an'cried my eyes oot, I did."

Oslan's brow was furrowed as he listened to the girl. His childhood had been tainted by the Trial and all the mutations, but he'd always had his brothers with him. He never wavered because of them. But how cruel, he imagined, would it be if instead all of the other boys had turned on him? Ostracized him? Made him feel like more of a freak than he already was? He always thought there was no childhood crueler than that of a witcher's, but now he was aware of Arda's own special hell.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to her. "Those things they tell you… I hope you know they're not true."

"I dunno," Arda whispered sadly, holding her hands in her lap. Her head was bowed, but Oslan could hear the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Maybe thair right. Lotto garls prettier than me. Frej dun care aboot me—I seen 'im talkin' and laughin' wi'those garls." She sniffed noisily. She pulled her sleeve over her hand and wiped her face.

"Arda—."

"S'okay, witcher sir," Arda muttered quietly took the bucket and stood, ready to leave.

"What do you like to read about?"

"Huh?" Finally, the girl looked him in the eyes.

"You like reading, right?" Her father had mentioned her going into the barn to read. Oslan motioned downwards to the stool she had been sitting on. "Sit down. What kind of books do you like?"

The girl lowered herself back down, holding the bucket on her knees. "I like… well, I li'anythen', really. Mostly stories aboot fair away lands an'heroes." Arda gave a sheepish shrug. "It's silly, I know. Ma says I'm jus' a-wastin' me time wi'those books. She says a garl my age shuld be larnin' 'ow te cook and sew fer 'er future man. Boot they make me 'appy. I jus' get lost in th'pages an'fergait aboot ev'then else."

"I see." Oslan paused, dipping into deep thought. Arda watched him for a moment, and then rose to her feet again.

"Yer moost be 'alf-stairved," she noted. "I'll go fatch yer a nibble." She hurried out of the barn. As soon as she was gone, Oslan leaned his head back into the straw and let out a long exhale through his nose. His hand returned to his stomach, his fingertips barely grazing the sewn skin. He tried to calculate how long it would take for him to heal enough to be able to walk and move with relative ease. He had no Swallow to speed up the process—all of his potions had been smashed on the rocks.

Voices caught his attention. They were coming from the house, but he could hear every word. It was Arda's mother. She was talking with a heated tone, telling her daughter that the witcher ought to be driven out of the barn, that Arda shouldn't be spending so much time with the mutant. She demanded Arda tell her what she was doing with that food. Oslan heard Arda's voice argue back that the man hadn't eaten the entire time he'd been in the barn. She was midway through a sentence when her mother interrupted her, chiding her for acting so openly towards a man. How were they going to marry her off if she soiled her reputation with the mutant? Wasn't she ashamed? Did she not care about her family's honor at all? Arda fought back, saying that the witcher had saved her life and that she had to see to his recovery, but her voice was growing feebler and feebler.

Oslan desperately wanted to stand up. He wanted to march over to that house, welcomed or not, and shout into the faces of those fools. _Can't you see what you're doing to her?_

"If you take that plate to the mutant, Arda, your father and I will throw your books into the hearth."

There was a pause. Oslan listened to the girl's accelerating heartbeat.

"F-fine!"

Hurried foosteps. Oslan leaned back as the door opened, trying to act as though he hadn't heard the entire exchange. He lifted his head up as Arda came up to his side and set a plate next to him. On it, there was a small loaf of seed bread and a cut of cured meat. Oslan wondered if his stomach was healed enough to handle solid food. But then again, the hunger gnawed him in a way that made reopening the wound seem insignificant.

"Thank you, Arda." The girl nodded, but he saw worry in her eyes. Though he already knew the source of her concern, he asked her if she was all right.

"Aye, I'm fine," she answered softly. She raised her arms and wrapped them around herself. "I shuld leave yer te yer rest." She rose and walked to the doors.

"Arda." She stopped and glanced back at him. "No one has shown me kindness as you have. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

A small smile twitched on her lips. Arda turned back and quickly slipped out of the barn.

* * *

After eating, Oslan slipped back into blissful sleep. It was late into the night when he awoke, and he woke to sobbing. Begging. He recognized Arda's voice. Alarm quickened his pulse. He sat up, throwing the blanket aside. His leg prevented him from going any further, so all he could do was listen and see what was going on.

When he heard their voices, he understood. They were telling her that this was for her own good. That she had to learn her lesson. The witcher was dangerous, and they were doing this to protect her. Above their voices, Oslan heard the crackling of flames devouring paper, the popping of treated leather being picked apart by heat.

She weeped, pleading for them to stop. She promised she would obey them. The flames hissed as they were fed more.

All he could do was sit there and listen, hands squeezed into fists. It seemed like an eternity. Finally, it all died down. Still he heard her, her sobs muffled as she cried into her pillow. Oslan closed his eyes, burying his face into his hands. This pain he felt now was worse than anything he had endured thus far. He could still hear her—the only person who had ever looked at him as though he were normal.

An idea came to him. Oslan reached over to his pack and pulled out a small journal. Its covers were a little tattered, but otherwise it had been well preserved from the fight a few days prior. He had been instructed to use it as a personal codex—for entries on monsters, animals, ingredients, and anything else he'd need written down. Oslan had never gotten around to filling out any of the pages. There was no need. Until now.

Inside the front cover were a reed pen and a satchel of charcoal dust. Oslan flipped to the first page and dipped the sharpened tip of the pen into the black dust. He paused to think, and then began writing.

He wrote about the sights he saw as he traveled. The far away lands in his everyday surroundings. He wrote about the shimmering water he would cut through on his boat, the stomach-dropping sensation as the hull would skip over a wave, the icy cold spray on his face when the bow struck back down onto the glassy surface.

He wrote about dancing with monsters, the deadly, exhilarating dances. His blade would be his guide and his body would simply follow. And when the monster lay defeated at his feet, he would feel that rush of pride run through his veins.

He wrote about cool spring showers and watching the rainfall from underneath a rocky alcove. Thunder would rumble in the distant skies over the patter of each drop hitting the ground. A bird, hidden somewhere in a shelter of leaves, would sing in harmony with the rain. The air would smell crisp compared to the salty tang of the ocean.

His pen skirted along the surface of the rough paper, filling page after page. He conjured up every detail, every ounce of feeling, for her. He wanted her to be there too. He wanted her to escape into the pages.

Finally, on the last couple of sheets, Oslan wrote about fighting an ekhidna. He wrote about how the monster had left him dying on the shore, and about how terrified and alone he had felt. And then there was a girl, a beautiful girl, who had saved his life. She showed him a kindness he had never known, and he would never forget her.

Oslan scraped the pen against the bottom of the satchel. With the last bit of charcoal, he flipped to the last page and wrote:

 _Thank you, Arda_

— _Oslan_

The book was placed on the straw where he had lain. As night slowly melted into dawn, he dragged himself out of the barn and away from the village, until he reached a small patch of woods to rest in. He made sure he was far enough away so that he wouldn't be able to hurt her with his abnormality again.


	13. Chapter 13 - Split Paths: Oslan pt-III

_**This chapter wasn't even supposed to exist. But then a certain someone convinced me that it should xD**_

* * *

He'd lost track of how many times he had to stop and catch his breath. As he gasped for air, his forehead leaned against the dry grass. How far had he gone? Oslan lifted his head and peeked over his shoulder. His heart sank when found he could still see the wooded area he had been resting in. He hadn't gone very far at all. Given what he had to resort to, was that much of a surprise?

With his leg, the only way he could travel was to pull himself along the ground, leaning on his hip to avoid scraping his stomach wound. The bandage around his thigh was thick and kept the bone in place as he dragged his leg.

Many times he had to fight the overwhelming urge to turn back and return to Svorlag, to Arda. He longed for the safety of the barn and the company of the little girl. But every time the yearning rose, he'd curse himself for being so selfish. Arda had suffered enough at his expense. He had to stay away from her. He already missed her.

Oslan raised his head. His arms slid forward and his fingers dug into the prickly grass and dry dirt. With a grunt, he pulled himself forward. He'd hardly left his last stopping place when the burning in his arms and shoulders prevented him from going any further. The heat of the midday sun scorched the back of his neck. His body, trapped under the thick hide armor, was sticky with sweat. His parched tongue was dry and felt swollen in his tongue. Oslan buried his face in the ground, ripping up handfuls of grass into his balled fists. He wouldn't cry. He couldn't. He was a witcher, a warrior—an embodiment of strength and courage and righteousness. But he was scared. And lonely.

 _Arda…_

He raised his head as the forbidden thought entered his mind. Once again, he reached forward and gripped the earth.

* * *

Svorlag was the only named settlement on Spikeroog. It was also the largest. Small camps and hamlets dotted the bleak island, but they came and went like the changing tides. Tribes would invade and wipe each other out. Weather and ailments would swallow the others up. There were also mergers—the converging of clans to form stronger ones. One such growing clan was further north in the island—Hov was what the unofficial sept was calling itself. But it was too far away.

Luckily, Oslan came upon the edge of one of Spikeroog's unknown little hamlets. He couldn't see it at first—the slope he gruelingly dragged himself up obscured the sight from him. But he could smell the scents of civilization—the musty odors of livestock and their hay, the sharp perfumes of hearth fires, and the rather unflattering stench of humanity.

As he pulled himself over the top of the hill, Oslan spotted the little place. It was a rather… disappointing sight. The buildings looked to be in a sad state, and he could only see one horse in the entire hamlet. Still, it was a place with people, and that was all he needed.

He made his way down the hill. The slope was a little steeper and offered him aid in coming down. As he came to the base of the hill, Oslan looked towards the hamlet. It was still several running paces away. He let out a heavy sigh and continued. He'd hardly moved forward one drag when he heard people approaching from behind. Oslan looked back as three figures emerged from the top of the hill. It was a man, his hair grayed from several winters, and a young woman—likely his daughter. Behind the man, being led by a rope, was a speckled mule. It was hauling the glassy-eyed carcass of a young buck on its back. The woman carried a woven basket in her arms, and Oslan caught the scent of freshly picked greens from it.

They caught sight of the witcher. "Da!" the woman gasped softly as she huddled closer to the man. They hesitated. Once they saw how the witcher, wounded to an inch of his life, posed no threat, their confidence returned. The man tugged the mule on and the woman followed closely after.

Oslan watched them as they strode past. He wanted to ask them for water or anything to wet his tongue with, but found no strength to speak. The father walked past without so much as a downward glance. The daughter slowed as she observed him. As their eyes met, Oslan spotted a tinge of intrigue in her cornflower blue eyes. He saw them sweep over his body, and then return to his eyes. Her teeth sank gently into her lower lip, and Oslan saw something more than intrigue flicker in her eyes.

"Come away from him, darlin'," the father called back his daughter without turning or slowing.

Without taking her eyes from the witcher, the daughter replied, "He's hurt, Da." Though he was no sorcerer, he could practically read her thoughts through her eyes. He saw the intent of taking him under her roof, nursing him back to health, and perhaps getting a little something out of it… Oslan looked away.

"He's a witcher," the father replied. He finally stopped and looked back to his daughter with stern eyes. " _Come_. Leave him." She obeyed, but snuck a quick glance back at him. Oslan watched her hopelessly, feeling his strength drain with every distancing step she took. He didn't wait for them to disappear into the hamlet and dragged himself after them.

When Oslan reached the hamlet, when he finally dragged himself through its invisible borders, he immediately felt the pressure of eyes watching him. He didn't know where they came from, but he felt them. They were always watching him. And they were never kind.

The only kind of fencing in the hamlet was a shameful line of string interconnecting crooked wooden posts. It traced the edge of a short cliff, though it was far too neglected to protect anyone from the small change in elevation. Oslan crawled to the fencing and propped himself up against one of the posts. It creaked and sagged against his weight. The witcher leaned back, panting through his mouth. He was grateful for the chance to finally rest, but he still needed water. The air felt like sand in his throat.

His eyes flew open when he heard whispers. His stilled his breathing and listened. He heard the voices of young women, hushed and excited. Oslan turned his head and saw a streak of movement. A long lock of chestnut hair disappeared around the corner of a nearby building.

"Did he see you?"

"No, I don't think so!"

"Did you see him?"

"Aye, I did!"

"And? Is it true? Has he got those eyes?"

"I don't know! I can't tell from here. But…"

"But?"

"He's a braw one!"

"Really? I heard he crawled here on his belly. He'd be covered in muck!"

"Aye, but that just adds to that ruggedness." There was a sigh. "Let's go talk to him! Come with me!"

"Me?"

"You! I don't want to go by myself! Come on!"

Two girls emerged from around the building. When they saw Oslan looking towards them, one grabbed the other's arm. "Oh, he's looking straight at us!"

"Isn't he pretty?"

"Aye. What should we say?"

"I don't know!" They stopped by him, peering down at him. One of them crouched down, regarding him with her wide eyes. "You're a witcher, aye?"

Oslan opened his mouth. His voice came out weak and croaky. "I… need water…"

"What did he say?"

"I don't know!" One girl giggled playfully while the other introduced herself. "I'm Helmi. What's your name? Where've you come from?"

"Please… I need…"

"Is that the witcher?" a third girl demanded as she came running over to them. As she stooped down, leaning her hands on her knees, Oslan recognized her. It was the girl who had returned to the hamlet with her father. They knelt around him, tittering nervously and throwing him sly looks. Any attempt he made to plead with them sent them into another chorus of giggling and gave them the bravery to scoot closer.

Eventually, one of them finally worked the nerve to snuggle up next to him. "What happened to your leg?" she asked, reaching for the bandages. Oslan's nerves jumped onto high alert as he watched the girl's hand move in slow motion towards his broken leg. In an instant, he'd raised his hand and slapped hers away.

Immediately, the other two gasped. "How could you do that?" one of them accused.

"What's going on here?" a deep voice growled. The girls jumped. The one nestled to Oslan's side quickly drew away from him.

"Da!" the girl with the cornflower eyes yipped. She quickly scampered to her feet and clung to his arm. The other two hid behind him. The man glared daggers at Oslan. "You'd leave this place if you knew what was good for you, witcher. Leave, and keep your filthy paws away from our daughters!" He spat on Oslan's boot and quickly herded the girls away.

When he was alone again, he looked up to the sky. The sun was beginning to dip into the western horizon. Oslan closed his eyes, fighting back more tears. Taking a deep breath, he unbuckled his pack and ravaged through the pouch that had once held his potions. Maybe, just maybe, there had been some liquid left at the bottom…

Something dragged on the ground and caught his attention. Oslan looked up from his pack and froze, not quite sure what to think. He saw a squirrel moving slowly towards him, dragging something with it in its mouth—a waterskin. When it reached him, the brown squirrel stood on its hind legs and offered the waterskin to the witcher with its forepaws.

Oslan stared. What…? Oh no… oh no, this was it. He'd done it. He'd finally lost it. The thirst had pushed him over the threshold of madness. Now he was seeing tiny woodland creatures offering him water.

The squirrel chittered, flicking its long, bushy tail. When Oslan still didn't move, it grew impatient. With louder jabbers, it began to irately wave the waterskin around. The witcher was still frozen with awe. With a final screech, the squirrel flung the water skin. It bounced off of Oslan's arm and hit the ground with a resounding _splat_.

Sense returned to the witcher and he took the waterskin and pulled off the topper. He raised it to his lips and threw his head back, feeling the cool water glide over his dry tongue and throat. Oslan didn't set the waterskin back down until it was completely drained. When he did, he noticed the young man approaching him.

One glance told Oslan that the man was a magic user, and probably a druid given his cloudy blue robes. The squirrel hurried to the druid and scampered up onto his shoulder. "Piko, exhibit a little more patience towards the man," the druid chided softly, reaching up to scratch the squirrel's back. "He is gravely wounded and malnourished. Good witcher, may I have your name?"

"Oslan." He found it much easier to speak now. The druid tilted his head slightly, beckoning the witcher to complete his title. "I don't know. I know not of where I come from," Oslan admitted.

"Ah," the druid replied as he crouched down. "That is not always a bad thing. I am Jannik."

"A druid," Oslan said. Jannik dipped his head in a single nod. Oslan didn't expect for a druid to take on the appearance that Jannik did. For one, he was young—young enough to be a suitor for a rosy-cheeked maiden. His shoulder-length copper brown hair was swept back in a loose ponytail. His beard was trimmed, only allowed to darken his lower face and jawline.

Jannik reached out and gently moved the witcher's arm from where it rested protectively over his midsection.

"These wounds have been dressed well, but they are far from healed," Jannik noted. He turned his head and gently murmured to squirrel tucked against his neck. The creature's round eyes blinked once, and then it disappeared. Turning back, Jannik said, "How did you get to be like this?"

"I saved someone from an ekhidna, and she didn't like that."

"Ekhidna? I'm sorry, Oslan. My knowledge of monsters is severely stunted."

"It's like a siren, but stronger."

"I see. How did you encounter a siren monster this far inland?"

"I was a little farther south—at Svorlag. There was an ekhidna living in the caves nearby. People there called her Melusine and would feed her live offerings."

"I've heard of this Melusine," Jannik said. "A dark goddess, she is alleged to be."

"She's an ekhidna."

"Ekhidna or goddess, she draws admiration and fear from people. That is her power." The druid had moved on from inspecting the stitched wound to the bandages around Oslan's thigh. Jannik's light, expert touch produced no pain. "Did you manage to slay her?"

"No," the witcher replied. "She left me broken and dying on the shore and flew off."

"And then what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Something happened between then and now." Jannik indicated to the bandage and the stitches. Oslan thought back to her—her sweet eyes and kind heart. He recalled her sobs and the sound of burning paper. He felt his third wound—that internal wound—reopen.

Instead of answering his question, Oslan said, "You don't look like a druid, Jannik."

Jannik chuckled pleasantly. "A compliment, I should hope. Have the stereotypes from the continent gotten to you? Many picture druids as old men with dirty robes, perhaps with vines growing out from beneath their pointed caps. You might find some like that, but stereotypes are just convenient generalizations. Maybe some day I will find myself taking on such an appearance. For now, I am simply an acolyte."

"What brings you to Spikeroog? There's hardly any place here worth calling a forest."

"That's the problem," Jannik said, a look of distaste in his eyes. "I and a few others have been sent here to foster the woodlands back to life. The flora of Spikeroog has not always been in such a sad state. As this island's population grew, mankind demanded more and more lumber for their civilizations. The constant strife between clans has also scorched much of the land. People do not seem to understand that losing the forest also affects them: certain species will disappear, and then more will follow in the chain reaction. With no stable source of food, this island will become uninhabitable." Jannik stood and looked to the distance. "But enough of that. We have more pressing matters currently at hand."

"Like what?" Oslan asked, wondering if was another monster. He wouldn't be able to help in that case, and the notion frustrated him immensely.

"You," Jannik replied as a shape appeared over the hill. It was a large buck, its antlers spanning far on either side of its head. As it approached, Oslan realized that it was pulling a low cart. "There's a grove just an hour's journey from here. We'll see to the recovery of your wounds there." With Jannik's help, he was hauled up into the blanket-lined cart and pulled out of the hamlet. Jannik walked by the buck's head, leading it on with a hand resting on its broad neck. Piko sat between its antlers, gnawing at a piece of carrot. Oslan watched the hamlet grow smaller and smaller behind them. He wasn't going to miss that place.

Jannik seemed to be thinking the same thing—or maybe he was reading the witcher's thoughts—when he said, "Their behavior towards you was unacceptable."

"It's nothing new to a witcher."

"You're not the problem. Though you did pique the interest of those young women." Jannik flashed a humored grin over to Oslan. "I could feel their restless energy when you arrived. I have heard that witchers claim a certain… effect on women."

Did they? Oslan hadn't known that. It was certainly never mentioned in the school.

"Nevertheless, that certain hamlet is currently short on suitable men. The constant warring made sure of that. Head a little further north and you'll find no short supply of eager widows, too." It sounded as though Jannik had gone through similar experiences of being flocked, though he most likely hadn't been dying and helpless.

"You must feel like you're in paradise," Oslan said lightheartedly.

"Hardly," Jannik replied. "I'd prefer a more scholarly lass myself. Girls like the ones you met back there—they're spoiled silly by their fathers and haven't got a single original idea in any of their heads." Piko scampered down from the buck's head and onto Oslan's shoulder, where it was much less bumpy. As the squirrel continued to messily devour the carrot, bits of the root skipped down Oslan's front.

"For a little rodent, you eat like a pig," Oslan mused to the squirrel. Piko stopped gnawing. Then, it threw the chewed fragment of carrot at the witcher's face and scurried away.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: My dying ass brings all the girls to the yard.**_


	14. Chapter 14 - Split Paths: Oslan pt-IV

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. Oslan stared up at the sky, listening to the soft rumbling of the wheels, the hoof beats of the buck, and quiet footsteps of the druid. The sun was setting, leaving the sky a pale pink in its wake. The clouds reflected dark grays and fiery oranges. Oslan's hand twitched as he soaked in the details, a reflex from the previous night. It would've made a good story in Arda's book—watching the sunset from the back of a druid's cart. For now, he'd save the story for Kozin and Andryk when they met back at the school. He was finally confident that he'd see them again.

Jannik offered him another drink. This one had a sweet, honeyed flavor that Oslan didn't mind. It tasted a bit like mead but without the tang of alcohol. A shame; however, this drink sent a pleasant cooling feeling down his gullet. The cooling effect traveled down to his wound and his leg and dulled their pain. Oslan glanced down at the small vial in his hand. He surmised it was a healing potion like Swallow, though it was milder in effect and tasted much, _much_ better.

Oslan heard the soft shush of the wheels as they rolled from gravel onto grass. Gripping the edge of the cart, he raised himself and looked towards the front. From between the buck's antlers, he saw a massive plot of dense forest. It was a beautiful place—the trees were lush and green, their canopy speckled with budding fruit and garlanded with flowering vines. The grass grew in thin, soft blades and rose tall enough to cover a man's ankles entirely. Oslan looked up as they entered the grove. He couldn't identify many of the fruits that hung over his head. There was a particularly strange one on a nearby tree. The fruit looked like a small, upside down, elongated apple with a gray bean growing out of its bottom.

When he felt small claws scurrying up his sleeve, Oslan looked down. Piko was racing up his arm, over his shoulder, and onto the top of his head where it launched itself onto one of the branches of the strange apple-bean tree.

The cart slowed. Oslan turned to the front. Before them in their path, vines hung heavy from a branch like curtains. When they drew near, the vines pulled apart on their own accord. The buck passed through without so much as grazing an antler against them.

They'd arrived at the druids' camp within the grove. Dotting the grass were a handful of small cabins made of… wood? As Oslan passed one, he realized that the hut was made entirely out of tree roots. They sprouted out of the very ground and intricately wove together to form sealed walls and roofs. A head poked out from the vines that hung in the hut's doorway. Oslan spied the curious face of a young woman peering at him before she disappeared back into the cabin.

They finally stopped at a cabin that sat on the edge of the encampment. Jannik patted the buck, whispering gentle words to it, and undid the harness. The buck took a step forward and shook out its coat. It turned to give Jannik an appreciative huff of air through its slick nose before bounding noiselessly into the trees.

"When have you last eaten?" the druid asked as he walked around to the back of the cart. He held out his hands to help the witcher out.

"Yesterday," Oslan answered, scooting forward. With Jannik's help, he was back on the ground. He stood on one leg while the druid supported him on his weak side.

"So it's been a while," Jannik noted. "I'll see to it that a meal is provided to you. We've currently no meat, but we can hunt it for you if you'd be willing to wait."

It didn't seem to Oslan that they normally hunted at all. Perhaps they were willing to make an exception this time to accommodate him. He thought back to the large buck that had pulled him here. "I think I'll be fine with whatever you have," he said.

"Very well. I don't mean to be brash, but you could use a bath."

Oslan laughed. "Nay, you're right. After what I've been through, I'm absolute filth."

"I'll take you to the creek." Slowly, Jannik led him out of the camp towards where the buck had disappeared. Oslan observed their surroundings as they walked. Leafy plants climbed up the drunks of trees and flowery shrubs lined their path. Birds chirped overhead and bees zoomed lazily past. The air was perfumed by the scent of hundreds of blossoms and ripe fruit.

"This place is beautiful," Oslan blurted aloud. He felt like a ninny for saying that.

"I'm glad you appreciate it," was the druid's reply. "I wish the rest of the islanders shared in your sentiment." The bubbly sounds of running water came to Oslan's ears. The trees parted to reveal a lively creek flanked by soft, grassy banks. A relieved sigh escaped the witcher's lips at the sight. Beside him, Jannik had an amused smile.

Oslan was lowered on the bank. A soft shush came from beside him as a fluffy towel and a change of clothes landed on the grass. "Don't submerge your wounds. I'll leave you to it, then." The druid took a few steps back, and then raised his arms. Oslan nearly jumped out of his skin when a wall of roots rose around him in a semicircle.

"I'm not that shy," Oslan mumbled.

"It's not for you," said the druid's voice from behind the wall. As Oslan listened to his retreating footsteps, he couldn't help but wonder what that meant. No matter. The witcher began unbuckling the straps of his hide armor and cast the plates aside. He unbuttoned his tunic, which used to be white but was now stained with old blood, mud, and grass. He flung that aside too, feeling the relief as his skin became free of the sticky clothes. He pulled off his boots to alleviate the weight on his legs and leaned down, dipping his arms into the cool water. His head sunk down, strands of blond hair brushing against the grass. Oslan took a moment to watch the bear head medallion dangle from his neck and enjoy the touch of water on his forearms.

The moment passed. Oslan raised his head. He cupped the water and ran them up his arms. Carefully, he pulled himself closer to the water and splashed his face and neck. He couldn't get into the water without wetting his wounds, so he soaked the towel and scrubbed himself down with it instead. He was careful not to graze the wound, which was already showing signs of healing. The pale towel grew darker, and Oslan silently apologized to any creature that might decide to take a drink downstream.

Sitting up, Oslan unbutton his trousers. He was in the process of ripping the pant leg off of his injured thigh when he heard light footsteps. The witcher froze, listening. Then, tentatively, he called out, "Jannik?" He knew it wasn't Jannik. It didn't sound like the druid's footsteps.

Whoever it was stopped. Then, Oslan heard the quick patter of someone racing away. Oslan hesitated, and then quickly pushed the matter aside. It'd probably been one of the other druids checking on him. He pulled the trousers off, wriggling the ripped leg out from underneath the bandages, and pushed them with the rest of the discarded clothes.

He'd finished with one leg when another visitor appeared. Oslan paused as Piko scurried up to the bank opposite from him. It its paws, it held one of those gray beans he'd seen earlier. The squirrel dipped the pod into the water and held it there. Oslan glared at it. "Do you _mind?_ " he said.

Piko ignored him as it raised the bean to its face and gnawed at it. Oslan heard the clacking of its teeth on the hard shell. Then, it lowered its face to the water, sniffed at the surface, and dunked the pod back in. Oslan resumed his washing. He stared at the bandages around his thigh, fighting to urge to unravel them and peek at his wound. The last thing he needed was getting random gunk caught up in his open leg.

Finally, Oslan decided that he was as clean as he was going to get. Sure, he didn't smell like roses or anything, but at least the stench of death had been scrubbed off of his skin. As he reached back for the fresh clothes, he heard a crack come from across the creek. Piko had managed to gnaw through the gray pod. As it continued to break through the shell, a curved nut emerged from the fragments. Piko let out a delighted chirp and, in one single thrust, shoved the entire cashew into its mouth.

Oslan watched the squirrel with raised eyebrows. Piko returned his stare. "That's great," the witcher said. "Now will you go away?" Piko jabbered at him, the cashew bulging in its cheek. It grabbed the largest piece of shell and hurled it at him before leaping away. The shell hit his shoulder, and Oslan wondered how the squirrel had such impeccable aim.

A rumble in his stomach reminded him to hurry up. There was food waiting for him back at the encampment, and the sooner he dressed the sooner he could head back. Oslan stretched out a hand towards the clothes, and then quickly retracted it.

"Piko?" Oslan snapped at the creature sitting atop his clothes. "I thought I told you to get lost!" He'd barely finished his sentence and the squirrel had already run up the wall of roots. Oslan managed to catch a glimpse of its flame-red tail before it disappeared over the top of the wall.

* * *

By the time Jannik returned to retrieve Oslan from the river, it was dark. There was a lit fire pit in the druids' camp. Around the flickering flames, two other figures sat cross-legged. After Jannik helped Oslan settle by the fire, he introduced the others—both also druids. One was Jannik's peer, another acolyte. The other was their master.

Around the fire, they chatted over supper. The druids spoke of their progress on Spikeroog's forests to Oslan. He listened closely, fascinated to hear of a life that was so different from his own. In return, they had him tell about his wounds and Melusine. They asked for every detail, eager to hear the play-by-play recount of his fight with the dark goddess. Eventually, the conversation drifted to a close. The food was gone and the fire was shrinking into its pit. Jannik left to retrieve another healing concoction.

"It must be a lot of work for just the three of you to revive the forest," Oslan said to the others.

"Four," the master corrected as he added dry bramble to the dying fire. "But that doesn't make things any less challenging."

"Who's the fourth?"

"Cesna. Come to think of it, I haven't seen her all evening. She should have joined us." The master looked inquiringly at his acolyte, who only shrugged. "Curious. I bid you take no offense from her absence, Oslan. She is a rather discreet one."

"I'm sure she has her reasons," Oslan replied.

"Are you talking about Ces?" Jannik asked as he appeared next to Oslan. He handed the witcher the sweet-scented vial. "I thought it strange too. Knowing her, she should have been avid to join us, tonight more than ever."

"What do you mean?"

"Ces has a… _thing_ for swordsmen. Men who look like they handle their weapons well. Witchers, especially," the other acolyte answered.

Oslan chuckled. "That's probably why she's avoiding me," he joked. "Beaten and battered that I am, she probably thinks I can't tell one end of a sword from the other." His remark was met with a couple of chortles.

"Still, I cannot condone this behavior," the master declared. " _Cesna!_ "

Oslan's head snapped up at the master's booming shout. His voice seemed to come from the trees themselves.

Light footsteps approached. "Cool your knickers. I'm here!" a girl's voice grumbled. Oslan saw her emerge from the forest even before she neared the firelight. He recognized her—she had peeked at him from one of the huts when he'd first arrived.

Cesna plopped down next to the other acolyte with a huff. Judging by her similar robes, she was a pupil too. Her short hair was a brilliant red, and she was pretty—all sorceresses were. But her face still had a youthful roundness to it. Her gaze avoided Oslan as she stared intently into the fire.

"So where were you hiding, Ces?" the acolyte next to her teased. "Lurking around on treetops?"

"Watch it, Eyl, before I turn you into a toadstool."

"On treetops?" Oslan repeated. He had a hard time imagining this dainty young woman careening through branches.

"Aye, lots of time she'll stray off and—."

"I'm _starving_ ," Cesna interrupted quickly, throwing her arms up in a stretch. "When are we eating?"

"You could have joined us for supper had you come a little sooner," the master chided. Cesna threw a pouting face and turned away.

"Just go get cashews with Piko," Eyl said.

"You _really_ want to be a toadstool."

The master looked away from the quarreling pair. To Oslan, he said, "Well, since it seems she is disinclined to introduce herself, this is Cesna. She has also come along to assist me." Oslan gave her a cordial nod, but the girl only looked at him for a second before flitting her eyes away.

Beside him, Jannik tapped the vial in Oslan's hand. "I didn't get that just for you to hold onto," he said.

"Oh, right." Oslan pulled off the top.

Jannik looked to Cesna. "You've been awfully distant tonight," he noted. Cesna shrugged.

"Nothing special," she said.

"No?" Oslan noticed a certain glimmer in the druid's eye. It seemed Jannik had realized something. The vial was just at the witcher's lips when Jannik turned to him and quietly murmured, "Oslan, can I ask you something?"

Oslan lowered the concoction. "Sure."

"When you were by the creek, did you happen to see a red squirrel?"

"Piko?"

"No, Piko is brown. Red."

Oslan suddenly remembered the one that had been sitting on his clothes. Unlike Piko, it had darted away the moment he saw it. "I did," he answered. "Why?" He raised the vial back to his lips and tipped it down.

"Well," Jannik said, his voice louder now. He glanced over at the young sorceress. "Cesna can shape shift."

A sharp inhale sent the honeyed liquid down the wrong way. Oslan reeled forward, spraying the concoction into the fire. After clearing his airways with a few rattling coughs, he glared at the sorceress. She looked absolutely appalled, her face matching the color of her hair.

* * *

He couldn't get them to understand why he had been so upset. "It was an invasion of my privacy!" Oslan cried.

"So? I'd let a lass invade my privacy any day!"

"What was wrong wi'ye, Os?" Andryk asked. "First the ones in the village, and then this one! Ye had lasses fallin' into yer lap, and ye just pushed them off!" Oslan looked at him with the expression of someone being betrayed.

"Must'a been the loss o'blood," another witcher piped up. "Poor lil'dobber wasn't right in the head." There were murmurs of agreement.

Oslan threw his hands up. "Fine, if that's what you want to think!" he snapped. "There, I've said my story. I'm going to sleep." He rose, snatched the cane that had been leaning against the bench, and hobbled off.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Okay, Os, you've been hogging the spotlight for too long now. Shoo, boy, get out!**_


	15. Chapter 15 - Split Paths: Kozin pt-I

Being back on their island was an immense relief. Seeing the grandmaster, the masters, the other Bears, and his brothers—they made him forget about the incident. But only briefly. After the warm reunions, embracing each other and giving loud claps on the back, the jokes and good humor that settled them into conversation over foam-topped tankards, the incident returned to Kozin's mind.

Around the long table, the trio of young witchers was thrust into the limelight. Undevar and the others were eager to hear how they'd spent their first season. Kozin kept silent, electing for the others to regale their adventures instead. Andryk started first, telling of his deeds in a little place called Fornhala. Kozin managed to suppress his anxious thoughts as he listened to the ginger witcher. After all, he was dying to know what the hell happened to Addie that would make him mistake that nekker for a dog.

Then it was Oslan's turn. His story was just as fascinating, especially to the older witchers—many of them had heard of Melusine. They told the blond witcher that he was lucky to have his guts still contained within his body. However, halfway through the retelling, Kozin could no longer sit still. The unease stabbing at his chest was almost too much to bear at that point. He realized that, although the entire room was paying close attention to Oslan, the grandmaster was aware of his nervousness. He caught a glimpse of Undevar slipping him a quick glance out of the corner of his wrinkled eye.

One of the Bears interrupted Oslan's story to inject a crude joke, which sent the room alight with bellowed laughter. Kozin took the chance to slink away from the bench and leave the hall. His gait was abrupt and quick as he made his way out of the stony walls and into the chilly night air. Once outside, he stopped. He looked around, and then walked further from the gate. He reached an isolated spot where there was nothing between the wall and the water but a few feet of land. Kozin settled onto the ground, his back against the wall. He watched the lazy waves for a moment, breathing deeply to calm himself. His nerves refused to relax. Giving in, he reached down to his belt and took from it a pipe—a long, coal-black smoking pipe. The base of the bowl was carved into a dragon's claw that grew from the stem and clutched the bowl, the points of its talons resting around the rim. From another pouch on his belt Kozin drew a pinch of perique and sprinkled it into the bowl. With a brief hand gesture, he lit the dark burgundy tobacco and brought the pipe to his lips. He inhaled deeply and coughed the smoke out.

There he sat, drawing in the hot fumes of the perique to warm him from the cold. His mind departed from the island, returning back to a few months prior. His golden eyes no longer saw the rolling ocean. They saw his face, the cold sneer he made when he spoke the words that would be forever seared into his heart.

 _I see it in your eyes, boy. You're not a hunter; you're a killer._

Kozin pulled in another deep breath, the acerbic, slightly fruity flavor of the perique scrubbing against his tongue. The heat dried his throat, and the smoke scratched it raw. Kozin gave another wheezing cough; smoke streamed from both his mouth and his nose. He wondered when he would get used to the burning.

He heard footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps—like that of a massive bear. Kozin kept his eyes forward and the pipe in his mouth as he listened to the steps draw near.

"Where did you pick up that ghastly habit from, lad?" the grandmaster asked as he stopped by the young man. Without waiting for Kozin to answer, he continued, "Many of my peers favored the pipe as well. Back when I walked these halls as a fledgling, smoke would hang in thick, hazy clouds around the chandeliers."

The black-haired witcher was silent. Undevar lowered himself down next to Kozin, resting his fur-cuffed arms on his knees. "Perique, eh? You have exquisite taste." He lifted the edge of his cloak and wrapped it over himself. "Young witchers are always in the custom of frivolously spending their first earnings—a night of bottomless tankards at the tavern or a trip to the bawdy house for a lass of their fancy." More silence, save for a soft sigh that sent smoke drifting through the still air.

"You heard the accounts of your friends, aye? Quite lively seasons, especially for their first ones. And Oslan—I'm glad he made it back to us." Kozin nodded. "What about you, laddie? How did you spend your first steps on the Path?"

Finally, the pipe left the young man's mouth. Kozin's voice was quiet. "I went into the Coille na Draíocht."

"No you didn't," came Undevar's response, quick and automatic.

"I did. I went in to find a merchant's cart. He paid me two hundred crowns for it."

"Laddie, you didn't go into the Coille. Then whom am I talking to? A doppler pretending to be a witcher?"

"It's true. You can ask Theila."

"Theila let you go into the Coille?"

"She tried to stop me. I didn't listen."

"Bah!" Undevar spat. "Kozin, you ought to heed the sorceress's words."

"I did it for the guild," Kozin justified.

"No," Undevar insisted sternly. "Never think like that. Never. I don't care about money. I care about my pupils. If I had to drain the school's accounts for the lives of my witchers, I'd do it in a heartbeat." There was a pause, and then Undevar laughed. "That well explains the perique. Had enough weight rolling around in your coin pouch to treat yourself to a bit of fine leaf, did you?"

"Not just that," Kozin admitted sheepishly. "Forgive me, Grandmaster, but I spent most of that two hundred on this." He pulled open the buckle that held his collar and peeled the thick clothes back to reveal a glimmering layer of chainmail that lay over his undershirt. The grandmaster sat up, examining the metal ringlets appreciatively. Undevar took Kozin's arm and pulled back the sleeve. The chainmail armor covered his arm too, ending neatly at the wrist.

"Bless my beard, laddie! You had this tailored, didn't you? This is fine handiwork—each link reinforced with rivets. I can't imagine the price you forked over for this." Kozin looked down. He felt Undevar's hand give him a massive clap on the shoulder. "I don't fault you, laddie. 'Tis a wise investment. How is it?"

"Heavy," Kozin admitted.

"Ha!" Undevar boomed. "What did you expect? Anything that can withstand the thrust of a two-handed Claybeg isn't going to be wispy. Put that on a Griffin or a Cat, and they'd be pinned flat on the ground. But you'll need to be mindful of the mail during fights, especially lengthy ones. If you're not careful, it'll leech out your stamina before you know it. Exhaustion during a battle is a sure path to death."

There he went—lecturing Kozin about the armor even though he'd already spent an entire season with it. "I got it," the young witcher mumbled, poking the pipe into the corner of his mouth. He drew in another deep pull and heaved a series of coughs that shook his whole body. Undevar reached over and gave a few gentle pats to Kozin's back.

"It's not a pleasant sensation at first," the grandmaster said, "but the coughing should decline after a week or so."

"Did you have a pipe?"

"Nay, the leaf never appealed to me. Took a few drags from the pipes of my friends and decided that I didn't like the how the smell and taste of smoke lingered over my senses." They fell silent. The two witchers, older and younger, sat wordlessly and watched the waves. It was just like old times, Kozin noted. Only this time, it was different. Things were changed—he was changed. And maybe the grandmaster felt it.

"Kozin," Undevar began softly. "Is there… anything else that happened out there?"

"No," was his rushed answer. He knew there was no point. It was a lie, and both of them quite clearly knew it.

"Laddie—."

"What happened to Valdre?"

Sharply, the grandmaster turned to Kozin. "What?"

"The grandmaster before you. Your grandmaster. How did he die?"

Undevar sat up from the wall and leaned towards Kozin. "What has brought this question to your mind?" he demanded. Before Kozin could answer, he continued in a heated voice, "Valdre was old, very old. He was succeeded. That's all you need to know. Now, I don't want to hear a single instance of you stirring this subject back up, you hear? _Leave it_." As Kozin stared into the eyes of the grandmaster, he saw their burning intensity. It frightened him.

Then, quick as a blink, the anger was gone. The kind, old eyes returned. Undevar pulled himself onto his feet. Wrapping his cloak around himself, he said to Kozin, "I suggest you return within the walls of the keep soon, laddie. It's cold, even for a witcher."

* * *

It was a simple coat of mail, but it looked _good_. He turned this way and that, admiring his reflection in the long mirror like a preening hen. The blacksmith certainly outdid himself with this one. Kozin shrugged his shoulders, appreciating the sizeable weight of the mail. He felt a boyish glee at this latest purchase, even if the price had been nothing to sniff at.

Kozin had been itching to get his own mail armor ever since he'd seen the grandmaster's Ursine armor in its glass display back at the keep. It was a true thing of beauty with its combination of armor plating and thick mail. It had been years since Undevar had worn it, but he'd told Kozin that it was like wearing the weight of five other men. Nevertheless, it had been faithful to him and even saved him from being disemboweled by a particularly nasty forktail.

In fact, Kozin was after one himself—it was the target of his current contract. The draconid had at first poached sheep, horses, and cattle from the neighboring villages around Kaer Muire. Then bodies, ruined by claws and teeth, began lining the roads. Burdened by the endless cries of fear that emanated from his people, the jarl of Kaer Muire had sought out a witcher to put down the winged terror.

After a short bit of investigating, Kozin found fresh clues of the monster's work. The corpses of two men lay half-devoured near the road about four miles from the nearest village. He crouched down, inspecting the gaping wounds that were already rife with a black layer of flies. They couldn't have been dead for longer than a day. Kozin rose, switching his attention to the trampled earth. To the untrained eye, it was a completely incoherent mess. But Kozin saw the tracks, the movement of the monster. After fervently feasting on the bodies, it had raised itself, paused as if to listen to something, turned, raced forward, and took off into the air. The amber eyes traced a path as though they were watching the forktail itself go through the motions. As Kozin's gaze rose into the air, he returned his silver blade to his back and casually continued down the road. If he'd read the forktail's actions correctly, there was no need to track it down. It was going to do the work for him.

* * *

The day was trekking upon the eve of sunset when he heard the beating wings. The putrid aftertaste of Blizzard still lingered on his tongue as Kozin turned, watching his target soar towards him. The forktail dove straight for him. Kozin skirted to the side and the monster slammed onto the ground where he had been just seconds before.

The blade was already whirling in the witcher's hand as he faced the monster. "Been wondering when you'd show that ugly maw," he taunted at it.

Roaring, the forktail swung its scaly head around to catch the witcher in its jaws. With the potion pumping through his body, the forktail seemed to move ridiculously slowly. Kozin spun out of the monster's line of attack. As he came back around from his spin, he brought the broadsword down like an executioner's axe and slammed it down into the nape of the draconid's neck. The monster's head was forced against the ground, pinned by the heavy blade. The tough, scaly skin prevented the weapon's edge from going deeper than an inch. The draconid gave a horrendous, shrill screech. Its winged arms scrabbled against the ground as it fought to bring its head back up.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught Kozin's attention. He quickly drew back, sliding the blade out of the wound with him, as the forktail's stinger whipped at his face. Now free, the forktail raised itself. Then it whirled around and struck at him with its tail again. And again, with the aid of Blizzard, Kozin dodged it cleanly.

Kozin scowled, irate. "Do that one more time and see what happens," he threatened. The forktail obliged. After a wide sweep and a silver streak, the end of the tail flopped bloodied onto the grass. The monster screamed. With a rear leg, it kicked at the witcher. Kozin raised his blade to parry. He felt the enormous talons grind against the flat of his blade, but one of the toes managed to extend beyond the sword and hook onto his chest plate. Immediately, he felt the tension tighten as the forktail curled its toe and yanked him in. Kozin lost his footing and stumbled. He saw the yawning jaw, filled with fangs, for only a split second before the forktail bit down over his shoulder and chest.

Kozin grunted against the pain and the crushing pressure. His feet left the ground as the monster began viscously shaking him. The chain mail was the only thing keeping his entire left shoulder from being torn away. The forktail stopped its thrashing to readjust its grip on him. Before it could throw him around again, Kozin pressed a hand over its beady, reptilian eye. He signed Igni and sent fire from his palm with an exhale.

The soft flesh underneath his hand sizzled. The forktail released him to throw its head back in agony. Wasting no time, Kozin stepped forward and threw an arm out. Aard cracked through the air and hit the throat of the monster. The forktail tipped back and crashed onto its back. Kozin flew towards the exposed underbelly and threw his blade into it. Then he drew it out—the silver darkened with blood—and plunged it again into the vulnerable flesh. The forktail howled, thrashing its limbs and trying to flip back over. With a final, powerful thrust, the blade shot through all the way down into the ground. Pinned into place by the broadsword, the forktail could only give its last fruitless struggles before it stilled.

Kozin collapsed down onto the ground, fighting for air with ragged gasps. One hand was clenched over his shoulder where the pain throbbed. The battle, as short as it been, had worn him out. It was the chain mail—though it had saved his life, it now made his body ache with exhaustion.

He told himself that he couldn't afford to rest too long. He needed to get back to the jarl and collect his reward. Once he had the money, he'd have to find another contract as soon as possible. His guild needed every single crown he could scrap up.

Kozin hauled himself up. The monster's head would have to be taken back to Kaer Muire as irrefutable proof of its death. The jarl would never take just his word. Kozin understood the cynicism. The facial ticks, the micro-expressions, the certain glints in the eyes that Undevar had taught him to watch for in a liar's face, they were everywhere. People always lied, and it was reasonable to assume that a dirty, wicked witcher like himself would too.

Drawing the saw-tooth dagger, Kozin approached the dead forktail. Suddenly, he caught a glimmer out of the corner of his eye. With the effects of Blizzard still active, the witcher quickly jumped back as flying sword stuck into the forktail's neck. The steel sword was in Kozin's hand as the owner of the thrown blade sauntered down from the nearby hill. Immediately, Kozin realized this man was also a witcher—a Bear witcher.

"Put your toy down, runt," the witcher rumbled. Kozin did so, but continued to hold onto it. The witcher made his way over to the dead forktail. Planting a boot on the monster's head, he yanked the weapon out and rested the blade against his shoulder. "This your kill? Hmph," he scoffed. "Not bad."

The way the witcher had a foot atop _his_ forktail irked Kozin. "Aye, that's mine," he replied, trying to match the man's gruff tone. He walked authoritatively towards the forktail. The witcher took his foot off and stepped back, not in the least bit intimidated. He watched Kozin with intrigue as the younger witcher crouched down to saw the draconid's head from its neck.

"This your first season?"

"Aye."

Kozin heard the witcher take a step closer. "You're one of Undevar's runts, aren't you?"

Upon hearing the grandmaster's name, Kozin looked up. The witcher was watching him carefully. He looked very old and very fierce. Kozin lowered his eyes and resumed his work with the forktail's head. "Aye," he replied, a little quieter this time.

"How is the old cunt?" the witcher asked lightheartedly.

"You know him?" Kozin cut through the last bit of skin and rose with the head in hand.

"Of course," the old witcher replied. "We were peers, he and I. He's a few years above me, but he was there when I went through my Trials." The witcher's grayed hair was shaved on either side of his head, and the remaining hair was in dreadlocks and tied back. His armor wielded the typical Ursine design, though his arms were bare save for his hide gauntlets. Kozin's eyes flickered down to the witcher's bear medallion. Aside from the masters, he had never met any other Bears closer to Undevar's generation.

"What's your name, runt?"

"Kozin."

"Kozin, huh? I like 'runt' better. Suits you," the witcher said disdainfully.

"What's yours?" Kozin grumbled.

"Malthe," the older witcher answered. He jerked his head towards the dripping forktail head. "Who are you taking that too?"

"The jarl," Kozin replied.

Malthe scoffed. "Of Kaer Muire?" he asked. "I know that weak-boned fool. More timid than a dewy-eyed lamb. His son's the same way too. And his daughter. Ha!" His laugh was harsh and grating. "But I don't mind that, not one bit. Nothing more fun than bedding a timid lass." Kozin's skin prickled. "So you're off to Kaer Muire now for your coin, are you?" The young man responded with a single nod. "You know, it's been a while since I've had any real entertainment. Why don't I provide you with the privilege of my company?"

He didn't give Kozin a chance to answer and began walking down the road towards the direction of the fortress. Kozin tightened his jaw, then told himself to relax. Malthe wasn't pleasant company, but the fact that he knew Undevar made him interesting. Kozin wondered if he'd hear more about the grandmaster through him. He hurried after Malthe. The older witcher had taken out a black, clawed smoking pipe and was drawing deep pulls from it.


	16. Chapter 16 - Split Paths: Kozin pt-II

_**Classes are over! I only have one final exam! Let there be updates!**_

* * *

Immediately, Kozin noticed the frightened stares. They weren't directed at him, but the man next to him. But he was with Malthe, so they likely saw the two witchers as one in the same. As they passed through Kaer Muire on the way to the jarl's castle, people shrank away.

Kozin turned back to glance down the now empty street. Malthe continued forward, still puffing smoke from his mouth. "They know you?" Kozin guessed.

"They know their place."

The young man looked at his companion. Malthe's face was as indifferent as ever. He recalled Undevar talking about his peers a while back. He'd spoken about the former grandmaster, Valdre, and the crimes his witchers were capable of. Kozin returned his gaze to the road ahead of them. He was starting to like Malthe less and less, but the curiosity was getting the better of him.

When they were just a short distance away from the gates of the castle, Malthe slowed. "You best go in there and collect your payment," he suggested as he tipped the ash from his pipe to add more tobacco. "I'll wait out here."

"What's wrong?"

"The jarl and some of his guards won't be too pleased to see my gob. Hurry up, runt, and try not to get lost." Malthe turned away, clearly ending the short-lived conversation. Well, the crowns weren't going to collect themselves. Kozin hurried into the fortress and presented the forktail head to the jarl. The transaction went smoothly. His client didn't try to pull a fast one and renegotiate the reward, probably because the jarl was relieved that the monster was finally dead.

After collecting his payment, Kozin went to the stables to retrieve his horse. When he left the fortress, Malthe was there waiting. He glanced at the additional weight in Kozin's coin pouch and scoffed. "That's how much they're paying for a forktail?"

"Work is work," Kozin said.

"You're adorable," Malthe ridiculed. "Come on, runt. Let's get out of this over-sized chamber pot." Kozin followed him. As they passed through Kaer Muire, Kozin finally decided to start with his questions. There was one that had been itching him.

"Why haven't I ever seen you at the keep?" he asked Malthe. The old witcher didn't reply.

Then, he said, "Did Undevar ever tell you about his past? About who he was when he was a runt like you?"

"A little bit," Kozin admitted. "He told me about some of his hunts."

"Hmm," Malthe grunted as he blew out more smoke. "He's told you nothing then."

"What?"

"Let's get away from these ears."

As they traveled in silence, Kozin's mind raced. What was Malthe talking about? Was there something Undevar never told him about? Kaer Muire was shrinking into the horizon behind them. It was nighttime. Finally, Malthe veered off the road and into the grass. They found a flat patch of dirt. Malthe perched himself atop a rock, leaning on a knee. "Start a fire, runt," he said.

Again, Kozin felt a tinge of irritation. Nevertheless, as the younger witcher, he obeyed. Shortly after, a ring of rocks surrounded a sizeable, unlit campfire. Kozin had just barely placed the last twig in when the pile of lumber burst up in flames. He quickly drew his hands back and glared at Malthe, who merely stared into the fire.

"Not the worst one I've seen," the old witcher mused.

Fighting to suppress his annoyance, Kozin sat back, basking in the flickering warmth of the young fire. Beside him, he heard Malthe blow out another plume. The smoke was dry and bitter in his nose. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the black pipe being offered to him. "Have a pull," Malthe said.

"I'm fine," Kozin replied. The black pipe didn't move.

"Come on, boy. You scared or something?"

Kozin turned to Malthe. He took the pipe and raised it to his lips. The old witcher watched him, eyes alight with amusement. Kozin inhaled. As soon as the smoke touched his throat, Kozin lurched forward with a fit of choking coughs. Malthe burst out into laughter as he snatched the pipe back from Kozin's shaking hand.

"Ha! Your lungs are too soft, boy!" he sneered. "You're a real pup, through and through. What, did Undevar never let you have a pipe? He's left you wet behind the ears."

Kozin couldn't reply at first, still wheezing. Everything from his mouth to his throat to his chest burned. When he finally managed to catch his breath, Malthe was still cackling. Kozin hated that. "Give me another try," the young man insisted.

"Ah, so you like the pipe? It's a good burn." He gave Kozin the pipe. Another drag sent him into another coughing fit.

"It is," Kozin rasped, his eyes watering. He was doing it just to prove Malthe wrong, but something in the back of his mind quietly agreed with the old witcher. He returned the pipe to its owner, still rattling out the occasional cough.

Malthe leaned back, raising a leg to rest his ankle over his knee. "Now back to your question, runt. Why haven't you ever seen me on that island, even during the winter? Let me ask you this: didn't you ever wonder why you never saw _any_ of Undevar's peers? Except those dogs he appointed under him?" Kozin realized he was referring to the masters. He frowned, his eyes focused on the dancing flames.

"Let me tell you why," Malthe continued. His voice had lost its jeering tone. It turned bitter like the smoke that flowed through his lungs. "It's because your esteemed grandmaster doesn't want any of us back. That's right. As soon as that backstabber snatched his title, he cast us all away."

"So he forbade you from returning?"

"Not just that. He's made it very clear that we aren't welcome anymore. Undevar's hidden the island, and that _witch_ helped him."

 _Theila_ , Kozin thought. It seemed Malthe wasn't too fond of anyone associated with Undevar. "What do you mean hidden? They moved it?"

"You're a daft runt," Malthe spat. "You can't move a fucking island, even if you're that magical bitch. She put enchantments around that island, concealed it from view and set mirage decoys to put boats off-course."

Kozin's hands tightened into fists. "Don't call her that," he mumbled.

"So you know her?" Malthe said. "I should've known. I imagine she still visits the keep, probably still gets on her knees for him." He gave a deriding chortle and took another drag. "Undevar has good reason for hiding from us. We're still around. He knows that, and he's scared. As he should be."

Kozin raised his head. "Why?"

Malthe turned to him. The flames glowed in his eyes. "What has he told you about Valdre? You know about him?"

"I do. He was—."

"About his death."

Kozin paused. "No." Malthe turned back to the fire, silently puffing at his pipe. Kozin could feel the tension in the air pressing on his skin. Something told him Undevar wouldn't approve of this conversation, but he had to know. "What about his death?"

"They said he died of natural causes—a heart failure." He spat on the ground. " _Bullshit!_ Witchers don't just keel over and die of heart attacks, least of all someone like Valdre. They're covering something up, Undevar and that sorceress."

Kozin's heart was racing. "Covering what up?"

"Ask your grandmaster. Or better yet, ask the witch herself. There's no evidence that says otherwise, of course. No autopsy was ever performed on Valdre because of the guild tradition to keep remains undisturbed. But we know." Malthe's eyes burned. " _It was murder_."

No… it couldn't… Undevar couldn't have… Kozin felt his stomach drop. He glared into Malthe's fiery eyes. "You're… you're lying."

"Why are you so surprised, runt? Don't you know how things works with us? With the School of Bear?" Malthe pulled from the pipe and blew a billow of smoke at Kozin's face. "The other schools, they're too passive. Too orderly. Their grandmasters pass their titles like cups of wine down the table. Neatly. Not us, boy. Grandmasters of Bear aren't succeeded. They're replaced. Only the strongest deserve the top, and when someone stronger comes along they take what's theirs." He saw the fierce denial in Kozin's face.

"Don't believe me? Then ponder on this: why do you think Undevar made himself so adept at reading faces? Seeing lies? It's not taught in the school. It's not something necessary for a witcher to do his job.

"I'll tell you why. It's easier to hide things when you know where all the pockets are. He thinks himself more righteous than the rest of us, but he's got his own dark secrets." Malthe turned to the fire. "Your grandmaster isn't who you think he is."

* * *

He gave three rapid knocks to the door of the study. It opened, and Undevar's face appeared from behind. The grandmaster must've gleaned the urgency from his face, because he threw the door the rest of the way open and stepped out.

"Tell me on the way," Undevar ordered as he headed down the hall. Brimir matched his pace. "What is it?"

"A ship," Brimir answered. "Spotted on the horizon and heading closer." They emerged from the walls of the keep and crossed the courtyard. The air was crisp. It was still fall, but the slight nip of cold promised winter.

"What ship?"

"A merchant's, from the looks of it." They reached the outer wall. A doorway led to a narrow spiral staircase that reached to the top of the watchtower. Brimir trailed behind Undevar on the stairs. He could hear the soft murmurs of the other masters from the tower's loft. The whispers hushed as the grandmaster and Brimir emerged to join them.

Galon glanced at Undevar. There was a troubled look in the large man's eyes. They all had the same thought, though no one wanted to address it. "Navigatin' the waters is a tad trickier this time o'year," Galon began. "Could jus' be they veered a little off-course."

"It's too much of a risk," Undevar stated gravely. "They've seen the island."

"Aye, but they'd assume it's an uncharted island. There's nary a map in existence that has all of Skellige's islands marked down," Roffe pointed out.

The grandmaster's eyes were fixed on the ship in the distance. "They've drawn close enough to see through the spell," he said. "An island appears out of nowhere before their eyes; what do you think they'll assume? They are aware of what this place is." In a firmer voice, he repeated, "It is too much of a risk." He looked around at the masters. Their faces were grim. They didn't want to agree. "We must protect the guild!" The ship was already beginning to turn around. Undevar looked straight at Roffe. The mage's eyes were lowered. "We cannot let them leave. Roffe. Sink it."

"There are innocents aboard that ship!" Brimir said. Undevar turned to him. The old grandmaster's eyes were ablaze with fury and desperation.

"Do you not think that I am aware of that?" he asked, his voice taking on that intimidatingly soft tone. "This is to keep the young ones safe, Brimir. You are all aware of what will happen if they found the school." He rounded on the mage. The ship was leaving. "Now, Roffe." The mage shook his head.

" _Don't you DARE disobey me!"_ Undevar thundered. " _SINK IT."_

The other masters were deathly silent. Roffe turned towards the ocean. Raising an arm, he uttered an incantation, his voice barely a whisper. Suddenly, a large spire of rock erupted from the ocean floor, impaling the bow of the ship. Wood moaned and cracked as the ship's momentum continued to carry it forward. The vessel was sliced in two and began to collapse into the water.

Brimir watched the destruction with unblinking eyes. He held his breath as he listened to their dying wails. He looked back and saw that Undevar had turned away. The grandmaster's hands were clenched tightly behind his back, and Brimir heard the pounding of his heart.

* * *

The horse's gait slowed as they came across the jagged shore. Kozin's eyes scanned the bare coast, searching. Fall was waning and the cold would soon take over, setting the shores in ice. It was time to go home. Kozin looked for any of the small landmarks that would indicate where he had hidden his boat.

Thankfully, he'd finally taken his leave from Malthe's company. The old witcher had given him a bad feeling from the start, and his attitude towards Theila and the others only confirmed Kozin's suspicions.

He followed the shore, heading to the East. The boat was somewhere up there, tucked away between some rocks. Over the crash of the waves along the shore and the clatter of the horse's hooves over the pebbles, Kozin's mind returned to what Malthe had told him the previous night. Was the grandmaster really hiding something about Valdre's death? And Theila… according to Malthe, she was involved too.

Kozin recalled the alleged spells that were placed around the island to hide it from passing ships. He'd never noticed any mirages. The island always appeared to him clear as day. Maybe there was something that allowed him to see through the spells. But what?

That was another reason he was anxious to head home. He needed to know, needed to look Undevar in the eyes and get the answers from him. Up ahead, Kozin saw the familiar rocks and stopped the horse with a yank of the reins. He dismounted and walked into the water until it was waist-high. He rounded the rock and was met by his tethered boat. After untying the boat, Kozin pulled it back to the shore. Once the boat was in shallow water, he pulled down a section of the boat's wall that served as a ramp. The boats Bear witchers traveled out with were big enough to accommodate their horses; otherwise they'd have to leave their faithful steeds behind every winter.

Just as Kozin straightened up from pulling down the ramp, he felt something like an electric shock travel through the air. The horse had grown extremely tense from something. Kozin heard it—a sharp whistle through the air. Before he could react, he felt something small and fast strike him in the back. It punctured his hide armor but stayed above the mail. Nevertheless, Kozin let out a choked cry as though the arrow had pierced him and collapsed onto his side in the shallow water.

The horse spooked and raced away. Over the sound of its galloping hooves, Kozin heard soft footsteps approach him. He immediately knew who it was. No doubt Malthe could still hear his beating heart, as the old witcher swiftly drew his sword as he walked. Kozin waited and listened. He saw Malthe's boots stop in front of his face and heard him flip the sword over in his hand, preparing to stab it down.

In that moment, Kozin sprang back to life. He rolled out of the sword's path, letting it hit the rocks. As he did, he grabbed the old witcher's ankle and pulled it out from under him. Malthe let out a shout as he fell forward. It gave Kozin just enough time to rise and draw his own steel weapon. The next second was still as the two witchers faced each other, their weapons poised to strike.

"Spritely little runt, aren't you?" Malthe taunted, taking a slow, advancing step.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kozin growled, stepping back. His opponent gave another step, as did he.

"What do you think? I told you. None of us can find the island anymore, and I highly doubt a daft little fool like you could outsmart the spells. Undevar's given you a way to see through them." He nodded towards the boat.

So Malthe suspected that the boats were somehow enchanted to allow one to bypass Theila's spells. Kozin realized the old witcher had followed him, aiming to kill him and hijack the boat back to the guild. "Why?" Kozin demanded.

"Don't you know? A lot of clans aren't pleased with the school, and they're directing the blame to the top. Undevar's got a lot of restless Skelligans who want his head, and they'd take it if they knew where he was."

"How could you?" Kozin hissed. "You'd be putting into danger everyone in the guild!"

"A little collateral damage is fine. It's Undevar that needs to go. Like I said, grandmasters get replaced." As they spoke, Malthe continued to push Kozin back up the shore.

Kozin scowled. "He was right. You're a monster."

Malthe's laugh was biting. "We were made into monsters, runt. You need monsters to fight monsters." He suddenly sprang forward with his weapon. Kozin struck back, and their blades locked. With inhuman strength, Malthe shoved Kozin back. The young witcher stumbled, but quickly returned to a defensive stance. This time, Malthe walked forward unbothered. Kozin backed away quickly, trying to preserve the distance between them. "Then they push us out into this world, a world were everyone fucking hates us and everything tries to kill us. We were trained as hunters, but you've got to be a killer if you want to survive." He lunged forward again.

There was no time to strafe out of the way, so Kozin tried to parry instead. But Malthe struck at him with an animalistic fury and caused him stagger back again. Kozin breathed heavily through gritted teeth. His strength was leaving him. With weak arms, he raised his sword back up, trying to fall back into formation. Before he could, Malthe swung his blade with an angry bellow and sent Kozin's weapon flying out of his hands. The blade clattered on the ground a good distance away. Kozin managed to draw his silver sword just in time to block Malthe's next blow. Then, he struck out himself, though his blade only met the other.

Suddenly, Malthe flipped his blade around so that it was over Kozin's and pinned it down into the ground. Before Kozin could pull his blade out, he felt a kick to his stomach that had him sprawled on the ground. The arrow snapped. Malthe's shadow crossed over him.

"Have to admit, you've put up a good fight. Better than the other runts."

Kozin's eyes widened. In that instant, the realization struck him—out of the witchers that never returned to the keep, not all of them had been slain by monsters. The image of Undevar flashed into his mind, of the sadness that creased his wrinkled face as he stared out into the horizon for the boats that never returned.

White, blinding fury clouded Kozin's eyes as the blade plunged down. He cried out as the point punched painfully into his chest, blocked by the chainmail. A brief flicker of shock passed through Malthe's eyes. With the side of his gauntlet, Kozin shoved the blade aside and rolled onto his feet. His insides twisted with rage as he faced his enemy. He no longer saw a witcher, a man. This thing in front of him—it was just another soulless, worthless monster.

He saw the monster lash out with its claws. Kozin whirled around so that his back faced his opponent, allowing the sword stab through the space underneath his arm. He reached down, grabbing the hilt and tearing it out of his opponent's grasp. Still in the momentum of his spin, he swung back around and thrust the blade through the stomach of the beast. The monster gave a hollow gasp, and suddenly Kozin realized that it was a man. Horror filled the young witcher's eyes.

There was an eternal period of silence. Then, Malthe let his breath out as a strangled chuckle. "Good, that's good," he praised in a strained voice. Kozin was petrified, frozen in place. Malthe reached forward and grabbed the hilt, his hand squeezing over Kozin's. Still stunned, the young witcher could only watch as Malthe leaned close to him, pulling himself up the blade, until their faces were inches apart.

His face held a cold, cruel sneer. "I see it in your eyes, boy. You're not a hunter; you're a killer. They'll make a monster out of you yet."

Sense finally returned to Kozin. He took a step back and yanked the blade out, watching the dead witcher collapse in front of him. Letting out a trembling breath, he threw the blade aside and looked around for his own. Something on the ground caught his eye. The clawed black pipe had fallen away from the dead witcher and now lay on the ground beside him. Kozin stared at it with disgust and headed for his silver sword. As he stepped past the pipe, he hesitated.

Something took over him, made him turn around, pick the pipe up, and slip it into a pouch on his belt. He retrieved his swords and went to find his horse.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Oh yeah, as of now (12/6), Oslan is up on the cover. You can see he is posing for the cover on this week's issue of Witchers Weekly.**_

 _ **Might sketch out other characters and put them up every other week or so just for funsies.**_


	17. Chapter 17 - Ten Years Past

Years had passed since that day, but Kozin still found himself occasionally waking with that voice echoing in his head. For the most part, he kept that part of him well hidden, though Andryk and Oslan still noticed. They noticed that their brother had become a little quieter, a little more reserved. Oslan tried pry it out of him at first, but Andryk slapped his chest and told him that a man ought to have his secrets.

 _Secrets_. Kozin never brought up the topic of the former grandmaster to Undevar again. At first he had looked at his father with different eyes. He tried to imagine the fury that had been on that kind, old face when he'd struck down his grandmaster. He tried, and he couldn't. Maybe Undevar knew his pockets all too well.

Or maybe Malthe had been lying through his teeth just to turn Kozin against his father. He wouldn't put it above that monster to try something like that. His words about the grandmaster quickly faded from Kozin's mind… but his words about Kozin himself never did.

And Theila, she came to visit the island more frequently than before. Some visits were for political reasons, and others were not. Despite their purposes, her appearance always brought light to Undevar's eyes. The grandmaster would change—several years seemed to shed from his body as soon as he'd catch the scent of violet mallow and freesia.

Kozin never worked up the nerve to ask her about the enchantments. Whenever he saw them together, all desire to bring up the grim matter would vanish.

Around the eyes of others, they would always act professional. And towards Kozin, Theila would act almost motherly. No doubt she was influenced by her connection with the grandmaster. There was the one time Kozin spotted them together, sitting atop the outer wall in the late evening. Undevar was obviously too distracted to hear the young witcher, his arm around the sorceress as she leaned against his shoulder. She was running a hand down his beard, and teased, "You should get rid of this. It's covering up my witcher."

"Surely you wouldn't ask me to do such a thing?" Undevar said, feigning shock. "It keeps me warm at night."

Theila nestled closer against him. "That's exactly why I want you to get rid of it," she replied. "That's my job."

Undevar gave a hearty chuckle. He turned and pressed his lips against her hair, murmuring, "Lass, if you said that to any man, he'd be running for his shears. Why waste yourself on this old fool?"

Theila pulled away from him. With a hand, she tilted his face to hers and said, "We're both old, love." And with that, she pulled him into a deep kiss.

Embarrassed, Kozin averted his eyes and quickly hurried away. What he had just witnessed… There was no way they could possibly be involved with something as grisly as murder.

* * *

Ten years had passed since his first season. Ten years of battling the kinds of monsters that required both swords. Kozin's first chainmail armor—that faithful old thing—had long since broken. He donned on a new one, a thicker one with stronger links and better riveting. The new mail armor terrified Undevar. Kozin never heard the end of the grandmaster's fussing.

One year, at winter's end, Kozin prepared to head out. He'd already pushed his boat out into the water and jumped in when the vessel came to an abrupt stop. Kozin rushed to the front of the boat, thinking that he had collided with a rock. Then, the voice boomed out from behind.

"Are you mad, you damned glaikit fool?" he heard the grandmaster roar. Kozin looked back to see Undevar dragging his boat back to shore. The boat hit land with a shudder, causing Kozin to stumble.

"Grandmaster, what—?"

"Step out!" Undevar barked, pointing at the ground in front of him. "Step out of that boat this instant, lad!"

Kozin had long since boyhood behind, but at that moment he felt like nothing more than a scolded child. Meekly, he jumped out of the boat. Undevar marched up to him. "Have the drowners gone into the habit of picking bodies while they're still warm, lad, or did you lose your brains another way?" He dislodged Kozin's chest plate with a harsh yank and pulled his cloak open. Underneath was the mail armor. Undevar jabbed at it with a finger and snapped, "You never get into a boat with this on! You never! Do you hear me, lad?" Kozin nodded, and then flinched when the grandmaster whapped him on the head. "I said, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Grandmaster." He saw Andryk and Oslan heading towards the shore with their packs and felt even more sheepish.

"If you were to fall into the water, this would drag you straight down to the bottom! Use your head, lad; it's common sense!" He gave Kozin's head another smack. Kozin heard the other two snicker as they came to their boats. "Now you remove it before you even _think_ about climbing back into that boat!"

"Yes, Grandmaster." Kozin began to pull off his hide armor.

By their boats, Andryk swatted Oslan's arm, and both turned their attention to Kozin. "Aye, that's right, hot stuff! Take it off!" Andryk heckled.

"Don't tease! Show us the goods!" Oslan chimed in.

"Oooh! He's so dreamy!" Andryk cooed in a shrilly voice.

Kozin glared at them while he unfastened the buckles to his cloak. He was painfully aware that Undevar was still staring daggers at him, arms crossed. As the cloak dropped to the ground, the other two hooted. Kozin pulled the chainmail over his head. As he did, the hem of his undershirt caught on one of the links and was pulled up to his chest.

Andryk and Oslan exploded into laughter. "He showed us the goods, Os! He showed them!"

"Quick, let's get out of here before he drops his trousers too!"

"Stop it!" Kozin snapped as he threw the chainmail onto the boat. Undevar stepped forward and yanked his shirt down. Kozin turned away, but Undevar pulled him back and continued to straighten out his clothes.

"Now you come right back here next winter, aye? You come home. That also goes for the both of you," Undevar said, looking over at the other witchers. They nodded. He looked back at Kozin. "Good hunting, laddie."

"I'll see you, Grandmaster."

* * *

"Ten years, little lass. Can ye believe it's been ten years?" He ruffled the fur on Aegis's neck. The dog returned with a cheery lick on his cheek. "Oi, mind the cut," he reminded her, gingerly feeling the day-old cut on his jawline. Another facial scar. The boys were going to give him an earful when he got back for sure.

Andryk leaned his head back against the tree trunk. It was the third day of camping out in this dreary forest, and still no sign of any vampires save for a couple of drained deer and a wolf. He was starting to wonder whether the forty crowns were worth it or not. At least it had stopped raining.

Aegis crept over him and settled awkwardly onto his lap, a habit she partook in at every opportunity. She was much too big to be a lapdog, but she was either delightful unaware or indifferent to the fact. Andryk never minded. He rested his hand over and idly scratched her scruff. Aegis lowered her head, resting her scraggly chin on the grass. Her naked tail thumped against the ground.

Andryk stared absently at a knot in the tree in front of him. His other hand rolled the chain of his medallion between two fingers. He reckoned this would be his last contract before heading back to the guild. Once again, he was pushing it. The shores of the island would likely already be a half-frozen slurry by the time he got back. Again. But after that, he'd be home. He'd see Kozin and Oslan again. But… now that he thought about it, Kozin was starting to act a little different. Gone was the cheerful adolescent boy he knew, replaced by a stoic, quiet man. And that pipe—he was always puffing on it. It was a nice pipe, and it looked and smelled quite masculine. Andryk had considered getting one himself, but he'd decided against it. Women might not appreciate a man who smelled like a fire pit all the time, and the smoke might hurt little Aegis.

Suddenly, a wave of energy rippled through the air and pricked Andryk's skin. The medallion on his neck gave a little jump as it thrummed to life. Aegis's head flew up, and a low growl rumbled from the back of her throat. If the little lass was uneasy, then that _had_ to be something.

Aegis hopped up from his lap as Andryk rose, drawing his silver sword. He saw them flitting through the trees, racing towards him—a pack of five or six waxy blue garkains. Andryk swung his wrist, swooping his sword in slow, wide loops as they neared.

"About fuckin' time!" he shouted at them. "Do ye fuckbags know what it's like trompin' around in wet socks?" One by one, they disappeared as they launched themselves into the treetops. "Get ready, lass. They'll be droppin' down onto yer head!"

Aegis looked up, her snout wrinkled tightly as she growled at the hidden monsters. A shuffle in the leaves, and then one of the lesser vampires dove at her. The dog jumped away, and then quickly lunged at the garkain's throat. Her weight knocked it onto its back, and she continued to shred at its soft flesh with her teeth.

"That's my little lass!" Andryk praised as he swung his sword at another garkain that had appeared. The lesser vampires hardly stood a chance. The grass became damp with their dark blood, and as Andryk faced off with the last one, he wondered where the alpha of the pack was.

No sooner had the thought come to his head did he hear the pained yelp behind him. He turned to see a considerably larger garkain pinning his little girl down. Her legs pushed uselessly against the ground while the monster sucked greedily at her neck. Trickles of blood leaked through her fur.

Before Andryk could do anything, he felt rough claws grab his shoulder. He turned back and saw the garkain trying to latch onto his neck. Instantly, Andryk lunged forward, smashing the top of his forehead against the garkain's face. "Piss off!" he shouted at it, bringing his blade up and slashing a diagonal cut across its gut.

Andryk whirled around and was racing towards Aegis even before the dead garkain hit the ground. With his free hand, he cast Yrden around the alpha garkain. As Andryk neared, the garkain lifted its head, scowling at the witcher. Bright red blood dribbled down its chin. Andryk saw the muscles in its legs tense as it prepared to leap up into the safety of the canopy. Before it could, Andryk threw out another Sign at it—Axii. He wasn't planning to calm it or tame it. Instead, he channeled all of his rage through the Sign, blinding its mind and confusing the lesser vampire. The garkain stumbled back, but Yrden slowed its movements. In a blink, the witcher was upon it, bringing his silver broadsword down and down again as he hacked into the garkain.

"You—damned—bloody—fucking—cocksucking—piece—of—fucking—shite!" Andryk hollered, bringing the sword down with every word uttered. He paused to catch his breath and realized that the monster was long dead. Wrenching the sword out of its mangled corpse, Andryk turned away. He hurried over to and knelt by the listless dog. She was whining pitifully.

"Aye, I know it burns, little lass," Andryk murmured softly, cupping his hand under Aegis's neck. Her ear lifted as she listened to his voice. "It'll wear off, and then ye'll be right as rain." With a piece of cloth, he dabbed at the small punctures on her neck. Then, he pressed it tightly against her skin. Aegis let out a shrill whine. Her legs began to weakly kick. "Shh," Andryk hushed. "I'm sorry, lassie, but I can't let anymore o'it come out. Yer blood's thinned and that bastard took enough of it already."

Aegis quieted down. Andryk sat on the grass, resting her head on his lap. With his other hand, he stroked her side. She was going to make it—she was a tough girl. Not only that, but the dark god's curse seemed to have enhanced her longevity.

"That's it, little lass. Ye made yer da proud. When we get those forty crowns, we're goin' straight to the butcher's and gettin' ye a whole link, how's that sound?" The bare tail began to wag.

* * *

It was one of the first things he heard when he returned. "Addie, not another one!" one of the older witchers laughed. Most of the other witchers had scars on their heads too, but for some reason it was a running joke with everyone to make fun of his.

"There's a thing called getting out of the way," Kozin goaded. "You should try it some time."

"What about that?" Andryk demanded, pointing towards Kozin's right ear. Behind it, running vertically, were three long scratches that had been left by graveir.

"That's on the back of my head, Addie. I don't have eyes there. It doesn't count."

"What a load o'mince!" Andryk protested, giving Kozin a light shove. "Come on, then! Where's Os? Why hasn't that bastard come out te greet his Majesty, eh?"

"Os? He's not come back yet," Kozin answered, brushing off his shirt where Andryk had shoved him.

"Os is still out there? Shores are going to freeze over any day now," Andryk said, turning back to look at the bits of ice that already clung to the legs of the docks. Kozin walked up next to him, staring out towards the horizon. Both had the same thought. "Bah! The bastard's just late! Probably scamperin' out from a lass's sheets, pullin' his trousers up in a hurry." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kozin look at him.

"We'll have to find him," the black-haired witcher said quietly.

"Ko!" Andryk snapped. "He… He's not…" He could feel the pointlessness of his words. Beside him, Aegis pressed her nose against his hand. "Two more days," Andryk insisted, glancing back at the ice. "Give him two more days. Shores should still stay runny 'til then. After that… we can go out and… look for him." He turned and headed to the keep. Patting his thigh, he called out, "Come on, Aegis. Let's get out of the cold."

Two days passed. No boat came to shore. Oslan still hadn't returned.

On the night of the second day, the shores froze over. The next morning, after Andryk had given Aegis her breakfast, he headed out to the dock. Kozin was already there, sitting on the edge of the pier. He was still watching the horizon. As Andryk approached, a puff of smoke erupted from Kozin and drifted into the cold air.

Andryk settled onto the dock next to him. He could feel it—Kozin was rescinding into his stoniness. He risked a side-glance at his brother. The black-haired witcher's brow was furrowed, and his gaze was sad. He returned his gaze to the ocean, the bare ocean. Out of all of them… he never thought Oslan would be the first. Oslan, the one who always treaded with caution, who retained every bit of knowledge presented to him.

He didn't want to imagine it. Refused to imagine it. But the image of him, eyes hooded and vacant, lying in some cave or deserted shore, kept barging into his mind.

"I didn't think it'd be this soon." Kozin's voice was soft. "I thought we'd have more time."

"Aye," Andryk agreed. "Thought we'd be grayed like the grandmaster before we'd have te light each other's pyres."

More silence. The bowl of Kozin's pipe lit up as he took a drag. As he exhaled, Kozin said, "When are you ready to go?"

"We need te pack," Andryk replied. "Best te head out the next morn, don't want te get caught out at sea on a winter's night." Kozin nodded in agreement. As the sun rose, they left the dock and returned to the walls of the keep. They began to gather their belongings and supplies. The other witchers and masters watched silently, their solemn gazes conveying their understanding. No one tried to stop them.

That night was a sleepless one. It was still dark when he heard Kozin sit up. The fight to get any more rest was a losing one, and the earlier they set out the better. Andryk rolled off of the bed, grabbing his pack as his feet hit the ground. Aegis perked her head up from the foot of the bed and rose as well. Andryk looked back as she leaped down and followed at his heels.

"No, little lass. Ye stay." Aegis whined. "Shh. It's nippy out there. Stay in the keep. We'll be back soon, aye?" He took another step. Aegis was still close behind. "Stay, Aegis," he ordered firmly. The dog sat, her ears drooping sadly as she watched him. Andryk gave her a backwards glance as he followed Kozin out. They headed straight for the docks. As he walked behind, he noticed Kozin's hunched shoulders. Their loss seemed to take a heavier toll on him.

When they reached the docks, they saw that someone was already standing there. His back was to them, but the long gray hair and heavy furs told them who it was.

"Grandmaster?"

"Where are you two headed off so early in the morning?" Undevar asked as he watched the sun peek from the horizon.

Andryk looked to Kozin. His eyes were downcast, his face in a pained frown.

Finally, Undevar turned to face them. "Laddie, raise your head. Let not even the pain of loss weigh your shoulders down. Such is the fate of witchers—those who survive long enough must dwell in the misfortune of seeing their friends go. I have gone through it, and there will come a time when you will have to as well." The grandmaster looked down and pulled something from his heavy cloak. "But that time is not now." In his hand was a letter, which he held out. "This was transported from Theila's tower. Roffe gave it to me just this morning." Kozin took it, and Andryk huddled close to read it too.

It was a letter from Oslan. In it, he apologized to his grandmaster, the guild, and his brothers. He wished them all well, but said that he would not be wintering at the island this year. Instead, he was staying with his wife.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Did I scare you? Ha, got'eem.**_

 _ **Wet socks are a witcher's kryptonite. Wet socks are everyone's kryptonite.**_


	18. Chapter 18 - A Familiar Face

_**Good luck.**_

* * *

He didn't know what drew him to An Skellig this year. He'd gone a few times in the past. It was a nice place—good scenery, lively folk. And they sure knew how to serve up sturgeon. But this year… something about this year was different. It was the start of his tenth season, and he directed his bow straight for that island. But now, looking back, perhaps it had been fate.

Oslan leaned against the side of the boat, his hand loosely draped over the till. He watched An Skellig draw closer and closer. In his mind, he planned his agenda. Monster hunting could come later—as soon as his boat was tethered, he was going to head to that beachside inn on the southeastern shore of An Skellig. It was an empty little place. The few people that lived around the inn were mostly those who worked there. Even though the place was about half a day's travel from Urialla's Harbor, many still made the journey to that infamous little inn for one reason and one reason only—the roasted sturgeon.

It was a local dish that was popular throughout the island, but one little location trumped all others at preparing it. Oslan remembered the first time he had tried it. He would have certainly downed more until his stomach burst, had each serving not been attached to a hefty price.

He heard the animated conversations, the sizzling of cooking food, the barking of the innkeeper at his serving girls, and the glugging of rich drink filling flagons even before he reached the door. When he opened it, the noise increased tenfold and the homely smells flooded his nose. It was just past noon, but the place bustled with resting travelers and shipwrights alike. A few glanced his way as Oslan stood in the doorway, but the conversations did not die down. This was another reason he loved the island—the people were so much more carefree and lax around him. If only monsters lurked here more often, then he'd have a reason to stay. But, on second thought, he thought it cruel to wish such a thing upon these people.

Oslan walked through the tables, avoiding the few eyes that stayed on him. He looked around for the emptiest part of the inn and found a lonely table that was far from the hearth. No matter. The lingering cold hardly bothered him anyway.

Lowering himself onto the bench, Oslan slung his pack onto the seat beside him. He shrugged his shoulders against the weight of his swords. He thought about putting them down too, but cast the idea away. Two things had to be watched with the greatest care in public spaces, the masters had told him—his back and his swords, and it helped if they were together.

The only other occupant as his bench was a disheveled, whiskered man slurring nonsense into his flask of ale. His hot, musty breath stunk sharply of alcohol. Oslan watched the drunk for another moment, and then looked away. He wondered if any of the serving girls would dare approach and wait on him, or if he'd have to go up to the innkeeper himself.

The answer soon presented itself. Oslan heard the hurried steps of someone nearing his table from behind him. He heard the clatter of wooden tankards and the sloshing of their contents. Quickly, Oslan lowered his amber eyes as the girl drew near. She marched right past him and to the drunk at the other end of the bench.

"Ruben, yer fixin' te drink ye'self te an arly death li' that!" the girl scolded in a heavy Skelligan accent. Oslan lifted his head a few degrees, allowing himself to risk a side-glance. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw nothing more than the stretch of bare table and the drunk's hands cupped around his flagon.

"Ermmmmffnnn l-lilaaaasss," the drunk slurred.

"Yer not faine," the girl replied sternly. Oslan was impressed that she could decipher the drunk's muddled speech. And yet, something nagged at him—he could have sworn he heard that heavy accent before. He heard the grating of a tankard as it was lifted from the serving girl's tray, and the boom as it was slammed down in front of the drunk. A splash of clear water jumped from the brim and darkened the table. "I want te see this downed an' emptied 'fore I see ye headin' oot, aye?" The drunk began muttering in what sounded like protest, but the girl cut in, " _Aye,_ Ruben?"

"Yeeeerr yerrrr," the drunk garbled, pulling the tankard of water close. The girl turned away, and Oslan quickly returned his gaze to the bit of table in front of him. As the girl passed him, he felt her put a gentle hand on his back. "Slidin' past ye, darlin'. I see yer empty table—I'll get right back te ye, aye?"

It suddenly hit him like the backhand of a raving mountain troll. His body jerked straight as though he had been electrocuted.

" _Arda?_ "

"'Oo's callin'?" the serving girl replied, looking around. The inn was so noisy that it disguised the source of his voice. Oslan stood, but before he could catch her attention, a man at the table near the hearth called out, "Oi, love, we're dried up over here!"

"Quit yer bickerin', I gots'ye ale right 'ere!" Arda snapped back, hurrying over with the filled tray. As Oslan reached to grab her shoulder, she scurried out of his reach.

"Arda!" His voice was drowned out as the neighboring table burst out laughing. He scrambled out of the bench and rushed after her as Arda made her way to the table by the hearth. She expertly weaved around the tables, fluidly dodging a drunken patron that had suddenly stood up to dance. Oslan, on the other hand, was having a little more trouble navigating through the unpredictable crowd. His eyes were glued on the woman ahead of him, and he let out a soft grunt as his hip clipped against the edge of a table.

She was unburdening the load of her tray at the table, a smile on her face as she listened on one of the patron's delightfully humorous stories. The moment her tray was empty, she straightened up and turned—

—Running straight into the man that had rushed up behind her. "Oop!" she gasped softly. She was considerably shorter than the man, and as her head tilted back to look him in the eye, she said, "Sorry, darlin', didn't see ye. Is thar soomthin' ye ne—?" Her voice cut off abruptly when her gaze came over his face. Her eyes widened nearly to the size of the tray that she clutched tightly to her chest.

Oslan stared back down at her with equal shock. She had changed—grown. Gone was the frumpy, pudgy little girl. She was still a tad chubby, but it seemed to fit her matured body well. The roundness of her face accentuated its feminine softness, framed by wisps of black hair that had escaped her bun. Oslan couldn't help but let his eyes flicker down to the womanly curve of her hips under the tray, and then quickly snapped then back up to her face. She didn't seem to notice, still gaping at him with awe.

She still somewhat resembled the child he had known, but now… she seemed to radiate an ordinary beauty that made Oslan swallow nervously before saying, "Arda?"

"Gods!" Arda gasped. "Ye… ye 'aven't cheinged a bit! Ye still look li' when…" Her voice trailed off, and the shock was quickly wiped from her face. She cleared her throat as she swiftly flipped the tray under one arm. "Anethin' I culd get ye, witcher sir? A flagon an'plate, may'aps?"

The words slipped out of his mouth on their own, as though some wild apparition had taken control of his body. "Sit with me?"

"I'd love te, witcher sir, boot thar's a lot o'folks still needin' their ale," Arda replied, her eyes flashing over the crowded inn. Her fingers drummed against the edge of the tray. "Tell ye wha'. I settle in fer a break in a lil' bit; I'll join ye then, aye?"

"Okay." They parted. Oslan returned to the table at the far end of the inn. Ruben, the drunk, had gone. His empty tankard of water was all that remained. Oslan rested his hands on the table and laced them together. He glanced back at Arda. She looked so different now, bustling through the crowd with the tray held at head-height. A lot of patrons seemed to know her well. Words of greeting sparked up from people as she passed, and she would offer a reply and a smile over her shoulder.

Oslan looked back down at his hands. He hadn't seen Arda since that day in the barn. Since then, any thought of her had sent guilt coursing through his mind. He'd often wondered what became of her, always hoping she'd fought through her struggles and found a better life. She had, and was still, the only person who had shown him that genuine kindness he yearned for. The memory of his journal resurfaced. He wondered if she had ever found it. When did her break start? There were so many questions he was dying to ask her.

"Oi, Arda! Step aside and let a real professional work!" a girl's voice shouted out. Oslan looked up. Arda and another serving girl were serving the same table. Oslan frowned, remembering the childhood bullies that had tormented her.

"Yer dreamin', sweet'eart!" Arda bickered back. A carefree look was on her face. "Dreamin' o'tha day when yer almoost 'alf as good as me!" They laughed. Oslan's frown disappeared.

"All right, Arda, go rest your feet now. I'm serious! Simms tells me you've been hustlin' about since opening time. Take a break before I tie ya down and make ya!"

"Fine, fine, I 'ear ya," Arda replied. Oslan watched her walk to the innkeeper's counter and disappear into the backroom. He looked over at a nearby table as a serving girl set down a steaming plate of sturgeon. Oh, right. He'd completely forgotten about that.

… Until another plate was set in front of him. Oslan looked back as Arda accompanied the dish with a flagon of ale. "'Ave you 'ad this? It's dead amazin'!" she said. Oslan looked down at the food.

"What about you?" he asked.

Arda chuckled. Pinching her cheek, she said, "Ye see this? I've 'ad me fair share o'the stuff." Her fingers left a soft redness in her cheek, which made Oslan feel an uncomfortable stirring in his lap. What the hell was going on with him?

Oslan hurriedly grabbed the fork and said, "You've, um… you look different, Arda."

"Aye, ten years'll do tha' te ye!" Arda said. "An' ye! Ye look jus' li' ye did tha' day I met ye! It's amazin'! Well… ye aren't lyin' wounded in me parents' barn… So it's true what they's say 'boot witchers!"

"Our bodies don't age as quickly anymore," Oslan explained. Immediately, an alarm went off in the back of his head. He had been taught to remain reserved, to speak little of witchers and their nature. Well, he was breaking the rules now.

"Tha's lucky o'ye," Arda said. "In another blink, I'll be wrinkled an' grayed." Her eyes lowered to his medallion. "Tha' too," she murmured.

"Hmm?"

"I rem'bair seein' tha' too," Arda said. "Ye was wearin' it."

"Oh." Oslan's hand instinctively reached up to grasp it.

"It's beautiful," Arda remarked. "Wha' is it? A bear?"

"Yes," Oslan answered. "It's a symbol of my guild. Every witcher has one—we'd never part with it. It tells me whenever a monster presence is near."

"Really?" Arda's eyes lit up. "What does it say now? Is thar a monster aroond 'ere?"

Oslan smiled. "No need to worry," he assured her. He looked down at the sturgeon, deciding that he'd neglected it for too long. As he tucked in, he asked Arda about herself. How she had been all these years. How she managed to wound up on An Skellig.

"It was a few moonths af'tair ye left," Arda began. "Me da packed up an'took me. We went away from Spikeroog, away from me ma. Da kept 'pologizin', sayin' 'e was sorry for makin' me live under tha' witch. Said we were goin' te 'ave a new life on An Skellig. An'we did. I started workin' 'ere, nice job. Met Emi." She nodded at the serving girl she had been squabbling with earlier. "Lively garl, tha' un. Las' year, I rem'bair, she took me oot te see the boat races. I'd never seen boats go tha' fast before!" Her eyes were alive, glittering with excitement as she recounted the memory. Oslan enjoyed listening to her talk. And those boat races—he was sure he'd top the winner no problem.

"An' a travelin' merchant was 'ere a few days 'go," Arda continued. "Sellin' all kinds of things, books included! I bought ev'ry single book 'e 'ad, includin' some old manuscript 'boot assemblin' wagons."

Oslan suddenly remembered the journal. He asked her if she ever found it. Her face lit up. "I did!" she said, her voice a whisper. "An' I read it over an' over again, ev'ry chance I culd!" She looked up at him. Oslan felt himself locked in her gaze. "Oslan… tha's yer name, aye? The name ye left in tha' book."

"It is."

"Oslan," she repeated. He loved the way she said it. "I never got te thank ye."

"No need," he said. "You saved my life."

Arda's cheeks flushed. "Ah, ye don't 'ave te say tha'."

"I do. Arda, I—."

"Me arms are about to snap, Arda! I'm sure your feet are well rested by now!" Emi called from the counter. Arda glanced over.

"I'm sorry, Oslan. I 'ave te go." Oslan gave her a nod, and she hurried away. He glanced out the window and realized that the day had dipped into the evening. He needed a place to spend the night and, well, he was smack dab in the middle of an inn.

The sturgeon had all but been defeated. As Oslan speared up the last pieces, he heard Emi's hushed voice from across the inn. "You're such a little she-devil, Arda! I saw you chattin' up that pretty lad over there. Who is he? You seemed like two peas in a pod talking to each other."

Arda hesitated, then whispered back, "Ye rem'bair wha' I told ye? 'Bout the monster on Spikeroog?"

Emi let out an excited gasp. "Is that _him_? Is that the witcher you said you fell—?"

"Shh!" Arda hissed.

"His hearing can't be _that_ sharp!" Emi scoffed.

Oslan rose. He headed over to the counter where the innkeeper stood, wiping down a flask. "How much for a night's stay?" Oslan asked.

The innkeeper regarded him and said, "Sorry mate. Some lad up at Urialla's Harbor is getting married. Lots o'guests from all over the island flockin' in. Rooms are all full."

"I see," Oslan replied quietly. He considered his options. Urialla's Harbor was too far, and likely full from the wedding guests as well. It seemed he'd be camping out tonight. Before he left the inn, he found Arda to thank her for her hospitality.

"Yer not stayin' 'ere at the inn?" Arda asked.

"Place is full," Oslan answered.

"Then where ye stayin'?"

"I'm sure there's a nice spot somewhere along the beach for me to set up camp."

"Ye can't do tha'!" Arda cried. "Air's still got a nip!" She looked around, and then said, "If ye can't find a place, I'll be willin' te lend me own. Got a spare bed. Used te be for me da, boot 'e passed two years ago, bless 'im."

"I couldn't—."

"I insist, witcher," Arda interrupted, her voice growing a sharp edge. Again, the stirring. And was his heart rate quickening? Seriously, what the hell was wrong with him? "I'll not 'ave ye 'uddled aroond soom wee campfair in the cold, ye 'ear me?" As she spoke, Oslan watched a lock of black hair fall gently against her cheek. He tightened his hand against his thigh, fighting the urge to reach up and tuck it behind her ear.

"Okay."

"Good. Now, I've got 'boot an 'our 'fore the serving garls fer the night shift come in. Ye mind waitn' aroond 'til then?"

"Not at all."

"Jus' sit aroond 'ere, aye? An' 'ollar oot if ye need anethin'."

"Okay." He turned almost mechanically as Arda hurried off to serve the finicky patrons. Oslan found a seat at a table closer to the hearth, but still at the edge of the inn. He leaned his cheek against a hand, feeling quite confused and frustrated with himself.

After a short while, a woman appeared next to him. Oslan lifted his head. Arda had finished up sooner than he'd expected. But when he looked up into the face of the serving girl, he realized it wasn't Arda. The girl was watching him with sultry eyes. Oslan suddenly had flashbacks to that little hamlet on Spikeroog.

"Anything I can get you, sir?" she asked. Then, in a softer voice, she added, "Or anyone?"

Before Oslan could answer, a barking voice replied to her. "Ilah, take your sorry self and get back to work!" Emi rushed up and gave the girl a quick shove. "Quit bothering the gentleman! Honestly!" Ilah flashed her a dirty look and hurried away. Emi looked down at Oslan and motioned towards his pack. "Our shift's done," she told him. "Arda's getting washed up in the back, but she'll be out any second."

Following her indication, Oslan grabbed his pack. "All right… thanks." Emi disappeared into the back, but Oslan could still hear her as she whispered to someone. "You're going to scrub your hands raw if you keep going like that! Hurry up, your knight in shining armor is out there waiting for you!"

"Emi, I swear I'm goin' te take this washcloth an' shove it in ye mooth if ye don't pipe down."

* * *

 _I don't want to fall asleep without you_

 _I don't want to take one breath without you_

 _I don't even know one thing about you_

 _But give me everything about you_

 _It's only been a moment, it's true_

 _But I could never live this life without you_

"Without You"—Parachute

* * *

 ** _Addendum: The lyrics have returned. Bring out your nachos because it's gonna get cheesy._**


	19. Chapter 19 - Fallen for a Dream

He watched the crumped ball that had once been a letter become scorched into nothing under the burst of fire. He had never seen Kozin this furious before. The black-haired witcher's face was scrunched in a terrible scowl, his hand still smoking from Igni. "What's gotten into ye?" Andryk demanded. Kozin whirled to him, and Andryk saw his eyes gleam with bitter rage.

"Don't you know what this means?" Kozin growled. "That whoreson's turned his back on us."

"What? Ko." He reached over and clamped a firm hand over Kozin. "Sure, he's got a lass under his arm now, but that doesn't—."

" _Witchers_ don't get married," Kozin interrupted, ripping Andryk's hand away. "He's throwing away everything he stood for! Does he think that's okay? Does he think a simple little letter with an apology is enough? That feart whoreson ought to have looked us in the eyes when he announced his betrayal!"

"Laddie," a deep, soft voice began from behind Kozin. The young man refused to turn around to face the speaker. "Let him be. The Path is not bound to every witcher. If this is the life he chooses, then this is how it shall be."

"How could you say that?" Kozin snapped, finally whipping around to confront Undevar. "The one he's married to—she's a _mortal_. You know what'll happen!"

"I do," the grandmaster replied, his voice unchanged. "I know perfectly well what the future holds for that boy. It will break him. Nothing will save him from that grief. But that is in the future; now, he is happy. These next few years will be the best he will ever have. Now that you are aware of the tragedy that he's put himself in the course for, you'd do well to let him have his joy." Undevar glanced down at the charred remains of the letter, and headed back towards the keep.

Andryk watched the grandmaster disappear behind the wall. He looked back when Kozin began walking to the dock. "Ko, where are ye—?"

"We're going to go see him."

" _Ko_ , didn't ye hear what the grandmaster just said?"

"I'm going," Kozin barked, casting Igni over the frozen water. The ice hissed and cracked under the flames. "With or without you, Addie."

There was a dull sense of dread in the ginger witcher's chest as he helped push the boat into the water.

* * *

The house Arda led him to was a small, cozy place—it smelled of warm bread and candlewax. When Oslan closed the door behind him, he immediately felt the comfortable change in temperature. Perhaps camping outdoors tonight hadn't been such a good idea after all.

"Oof!" he heard Arda gasp and turned to look. Her back was to him; her arms were extended towards the ceiling as she stretched. Oslan watched the curve of her back, his knuckles turning white on the doorknob. He released it and crossed his arms as Arda let her stretch go with a sigh. "Those tankards are mighty 'eavy," she said, reaching up to massage her arms. "I swear me back's fixin' te snap one o'these days."

 _Rub her shoulders_ , a strange little voice in his head told him. Oslan obeyed the foreign voice, reaching for Arda's shoulders. He saw her turning around to him and quickly retracted his arms back to his chest. "Can I get ye a drink, Oslan? Or pull oop a 'ot bath fer ye?"

"Erm," Oslan mumbled, and cleared his throat. _Clean yourself up before you cover her entire home in filth, you animal_. "Aye, I could use a bath—t-take a bath."

"O'course. Jus' wait 'ere while I get it ready fer ye, aye?" She paused, and then gave a quiet laugh. "Oi, Oslan, put those swords an' tha' big ol'pack doon 'fore yer back gets as creaky as mine." She reached over and pulled the pack down from his shoulder. Oslan felt goose bumps prick his arm and was glad his skin was hidden. He removed the swords and placed them beside the door with his pack. "An' then I'll go an' get the bed ready. Was goin' te convert the room te a small libr'y o'sorts, boot luckily fer ye I 'aven't gotten aroond te it yet."

Arda disappeared to go heat water for his bath. Oslan sat at a small table by a window, staring out into the still night. He had an inkling of an idea about what was happening inside of him, but he couldn't accept it. But at the same time, he knew no one had ever made him feel this way. He'd never been that intimate with a woman, never saw the appeal of getting with a lass who'd pull her dress off for any man who looked at her a certain way.

According to Andryk, there had been that one time a few years ago in that tavern in Ard Skellig. There'd been a makeshift gwent tournament going on, and the two of them had jumped into the thick of it. There was a rule that the winner of a round had to down one flagon of akvavit while the loser had to down three. He remembered his first few rounds and how he began progressively getting woozy-headed. After that, he couldn't recall a thing and had to have Andryk fill him in. The red-haired witcher told him that he'd eventually lost to the local gwent champion—largely due to the fact that he'd been so pissed he couldn't hold his cards up straight. After that, he'd spilled most of the contents of the three flagons on himself. Then he'd retreated to a corner of the tavern and spent the rest of the tournament plastered to a lass who was equally as drunk. "Gettin' very handsy; would've made a seasoned whore blush," were Andryk's exact words. "In fact, I'd be willin' to bet both me swords the two of ye would've thrown off your clothes and done it right there had the blootered lass not shoved ye off to cowk over yer trousers."

Oslan objected, arguing that he would have never been so vulgar even in that state. Andryk had given him a look, saying that he'd found the blond witcher in the process of unsuccessfully fumbling with his belt. "The lass was helping too, bless her. But the both of ye were so wrecked ye were having too much trouble with that buckle." Unfortunately, Oslan's "fun" was cut short when Andryk had grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him out of the tavern, livid and sore at having been beat by the local champion as well.

"Wha' are ye grinnin' at?" came her soft voice. Oslan nearly jumped out of his chair, quickly trying to chase away the image of his drunken self attempting to pry off his sick-soaked trousers while being groped by a blootered lass. Arda must have seen the embarrassed look on his face, because she offered him a smile and added, "Ah, must be a pretty face yer thinkin' 'boot." Her smile seemed almost sad.

 _'Yours.' Say, 'It's yours,'_ the voice egged.

"Uh…" was all the peeped from Oslan's mouth.

Arda looked down at her hands. "Beggin' yer pardon. Didn't mean te pry. Bath's ready, jus' so ye know." She led him to the washroom. The air was already humid from the steam. Oslan heard the door shut gently behind him and began pulling first his armor, then his clothes, off. He was in the process of pulling his trousers past his knees when he heard a knock. Quickly, he pulled them back up and gave an answer.

The door opened and Arda stepped in with an armful of towels. Upon spotting the half-naked witcher, she froze like a doe. Oslan too stood motionless as the sudden, crazy impulse to take her and pin her against his bare chest washed over him. He blinked and mentally kicked himself.

 _Don't you hear her racing heart? Do it. Take her into the bath with you._

"H-hi."

"Jus' thought I'd drop some o'these off," Arda explained quickly, setting the towels down on a nearby chair. She quickly vanished behind the door, but not before Oslan caught a glimpse of her flushed face.

At last he settled into the tub, letting out a sigh. He looked down, seeing his loose blond hair pooling around his chest. When had it gotten so long? He hadn't really noticed when it was braided. Perhaps he ought to find a barber to trim it down. But it couldn't be too short that he wouldn't be able to put it in a braid.

Oslan's eyes traced the long scar that ran from his shoulder to his elbow. A water hag had so graciously given that to him. Despite the hot water, a shudder ran through his body as he recalled the encounter with the ghastly thing. To distract himself from the disturbing memory, he leaned forward and began scrubbing his hair.

After a while, when the water became lukewarm, Oslan reluctantly hauled himself out of the tub. He dried himself with a towel and rubbed his hair with another. He raised a hand and ran it over the scruff on his chin and neck, wondering if he should grab his knife and shave.

 _Depends. Does Arda like a shaved man?_

Wait… why was he wondering something like that?

 _You know why_.

Oslan threw the towel back onto the chair and pulled his clothes—the trousers and white undershirt—back on. He bundled the armor under his arm and stepped out of the washroom, heading over to the door to put them with his pack and swords. He spotted Arda sitting at the small table. Her hair was out of its bun and ran down to the middle of her back. She was running a brush through it and didn't notice him at first, her head tilted and turned away. Oslan found himself staring. With each stroke, the brush sent a flowery aroma fluttering in the air. He'd notice that a bottle in the washroom held the same scent.

 _Touch it_. No, he couldn't do that! _Yes you can. Imagine how it feels bunched up in your fist. It'd smell really good with your face buried in it, while you slide your other hand—._

Arda noticed him. Their eyes connected. "I like your hair," Oslan blurted out, hoping that would save him from looking like a creep. _Now touch it_.

"Oh," Arda replied softly. "Tha's mighty sweet o'ye." Oslan shuffled inelegantly over to his pack and dropped the armor by it. He turned, spying Arda quickly looking away, and shuffled back out.

The second bedroom was already prepared for him. The soft sheets looked inviting. _Hmm, this is no good_ , the voice grumbled. _You ought to be in_ her _bed._ That voice really needed to shut the hell up. He pulled the shirt over his head and threw it to the foot of the bed as he slipped under the covers. A few moments later, he heard rustling from Arda's bedroom. Once again, every nerve in his body became alight with the desire to go to her room and slip under the sheets with her.

Oslan smacked a palm to his forehead. Why was this happening to him? Why? Why?

 _It's obvious, you fucking idiot. You're in love_.

With that thought rattling around in his head, it took a long time for him to fall asleep.

* * *

He awoke late in the morning. Arda had already gone off to work, though she'd left a note behind telling him that he could stay as long as he liked. Oslan rubbed his groggy eyes as he set the note down, wondering just how much sleep he had gotten. Beside the note, Arda had left a plate of bread and cheese.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. Oslan wandered around the house, nosily looking around. He stopped at her bedroom, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. _Go for it_. He pushed it open and peeked in. There wasn't much apart from the modest furniture. A book sitting on the nightstand caught the witcher's attention. He recognized the cover.

Letting go of his restraint, Oslan entered the room and walked over to the nightstand to pick the book up. He turned it to the side and examined its pages. Each edge was frayed, worn by fingers flipping through them over and over again. Opening the book, Oslan found old, familiar words. His words. Oslan skimmed over the stories he'd left for Arda, slightly appalled by his writing. He turned to the last page and noticed that his name had been circled.

Oslan shut the book and placed it back on the nightstand. He went to the door to don his armor, pack and swords. His little "vacation" was over. He had a job to do. Back to witchering. Back to being unseen until he was needed.

His hand hovered over the doorknob. A thought crossed his mind. He turned, snatching the note from the table, and tucked it under his belt. Then he left, taking one last breath of bread and flowers.

A nest of harpies, he learned from an old sailor at Urialla's Harbor, had settled in the Bay of Winds. Their racket could be heard even from the harbor, and sometimes when the moon was high they'd terrorize ships at sea. Oslan came upon the bay and found the screaming harpies. Or rather, they found him. As he approached, they swooped at his head so fast an ordinary man would have been taken by surprise and been overcome, but not a witcher. The harpies that dared come close found silver in their throats and twitched on the ground, gurgling their blood. The ones that smelled the blood of their fallen sisters hesitated in the air. They hardly had a chance to deliberate on whether to fight or flee, however, as crossbow bolts pierced their skulls and sent them crashing next to the rest of the bodies.

Oslan caught his breath, wiping the dark blood from his blade. After returning it to its sheath, he felt the jagged tears in his armor where the harpies had clawed him. Thankfully, his skin was untouched, but he needed to get the armor repaired at the nearest opportunity. He returned to Urialla's Harbor to collect his reward. It wasn't enough for full repairs, but he headed over to the smithy to fortify as much as he could.

The rest of the day was rather uneventful. An Skellig was currently enjoying a period of monster-free days. An old woman hired Oslan to battle the monster in her chimney, swearing that it was something otherworldly. She had Oslan squeeze into the fireplace and shimmy up the cramped, sooty space. Instead of a fiend, Oslan found a trapped barn swallow, its wings blackened with soot. He fished the bird out and showed it to the old woman, telling her that there was no monster in her chimney. She dismissively replied that she already knew that, and just wanted him to get rid of it so it would stop flapping and keeping her up at night.

He was still brushing soot out from the cracks of his armor as he stepped out of the old woman's house. The barn swallow, upon feeling the open wind, fluttered its wings. It bumped into Oslan's face and then took to the sky.

Night was approaching. Oslan considered maybe patrolling the shores for drowners to pass the time. But then an idea came to him—a horrible, yet wonderful idea. He'd go back to her, see if she would offer him her roof for another night. Of course Arda, the sweetest girl in all of existence, would never turn him away. And this time, _this time_ , Oslan told himself as he marched towards the small village, he'd tell her—confess everything. His strides were wide and swift, his vigor fueled by the day's battle.

Then, they slowed. As he neared the village, saw the lit windows of _that_ house, he began to grow weary. What was he thinking? He couldn't just come knocking at her door at such a late hour, much less make such outlandish confessions.

But he'd come this far now. He couldn't turn back. Or could he? Perhaps there was a nest of drowners further up the shore that needed—no, he was going up to that door. He was going to knock. Oh, gods, what was he doing?

His knuckles sounded weak and pitiful on the door. Oslan heard the scraping of a chair and light footsteps coming towards the door. He fought to keep his breathing steady. The door opened and soft light hit his face. Oslan's pupils narrowed. He heard a soft gasp, and the door opened wider.

"Oslan!" he heard her say. The joy in her voice was music to his ears. "Don't stay oot in the cold! Come in!" He stepped back into the warmth, breathing her scent in. Behind him, Arda shut the door. "I thought ye left! Thought ye'd gone off te save the world again. Figured it'd be anoth'air ten years 'fore I'd catch a glimpse o'yer face again."

He didn't move from where he stood, watching her. He drank in the delight in her voice and in her face, a sudden realization dawning on him. He didn't want to be a witcher. He wanted this. "I couldn't wait that long," he replied.

Arda laughed and suddenly hugged him, pressing the side of her face against his shoulder. Oslan's arms went around her too. A hand came up to pull her chin up, and he leaned down to press his lips over hers. He could feel her surprise at first, but it quickly melted away as she pressed back into him. Her hands slid up to frame his face. With his arm around the small of her back, he pulled her closer. He now knew that he had never, ever wanted anything more than this. Their lips parted. He plunged his face down to her neck, feeling her shudder in her arms.

Then, suddenly, he felt her grow tense. Her arms bunched up in front of her and pushed against his chest. "Stop! _Stop!"_ she pleaded. Oslan pulled away, startled. His mind was a whirlwind. His lips tingled from the lingering sensation of her skin and his heart beat so fast it hurt. "What's wrong?"

Arda's cheeks were flushed from excitement. She reached up and covered them with her hands. She turned away and collapsed onto a chair. "Is this what ye came back fer?" she whispered, her voice pained. Oslan felt his stomach drop. "I-I 'eard 'ow ye witchers are. 'Eard it froom Simms—told me 'boot 'ow soom witcher wooed 'is daughter. 'E kissed 'er, whispered sweet things into 'er ear. Then the next morn, 'e was gone and left nothin' behind boot a 'eartbroken lass. Is that what yer goin' te do, Oslan?" She covered her eyes, and her voice became thick as she fought back tears.

"I… I won't let myself give in te this. 'Cause then I'll open me eyes an' ye'll be gone li' a dream. An' don't ye argue, try te convince me otherwise," she said as Oslan stepped closer. "Thar's nothin' 'ere that a witcher wuld stay fer, I know that much." She looked up at him. Her eyes were red. "Ye know what? Couple o'years ago, soom man came oop te me da with 'is son. Told me da 'e'd li' te see us betrothed. Lad was nice an' 'ad good coin. Me da was o'erjoyed. Boot I begged with 'im, pleaded with 'im not te let it 'appen. 'E asked me why an' I culdn't tell 'im." The corners of her eyes glimmered, and then streams of tears fell down her cheeks. "Culdn't tell 'im tha' whenever I looked at the lad, all I saw was yer face."

She brushed a hand across her face. "I'm twen'y-un now, far past the marryin' age. Folks wondered why poor lil' Arda never gave 'erself te any man. It's 'cause I fell in love with a dream, tha's why."

The sound of her sobs yanked him back to ten years prior—to listening to her sob from the barn. The girl who had showed him undying kindness, she had suffered so much because of him.

"Arda." She didn't answer him. Oslan grasped the medallion on his neck and pulled it over his head. He knelt down and brought one of her hands away from her face. Cupping his hand under hers, he pressed the medallion into her palm. As Arda stared at it, it looked back with its beady, brilliant eyes. "A witcher never leaves his medallion," he reminded her. "I want you to hide it. I'm leaving, only for an hour, and then I'll be back. I want you to hide it somewhere safe, somewhere I won't be able to find it. Then when you open your eyes, I'll still be here."

She gazed at him. He reached up to brush her wet cheek, but she lifted her hand up and held his against her face. "Why're ye doin' this?" she sniffed. Oslan brought his face close and gently kissed her.

"I love you."

The night air was cold, but he couldn't feel anything but warmth on his skin. Reaching up, Oslan traced the side of his face where her hands had held him. His boots kicked up the white, powdery sand as he strolled along the beach. Finally, when he reached the point where he could no longer hear any sounds from the village, he sat down and stared out into the rolling waves.

He wondered if he was making the right choice. What would the grandmaster say? What would his brothers say? Well… they wouldn't understand. They had no problem with what they were. But Oslan… he never wanted to be a witcher, damn it! The life he wanted finally came to him, and he was going to seize it and hold onto it with everything he had.

But this was different. Something in the back of his head whispered the truth to him. He was a witcher. He was mutated. He was going to outlive her. Then, he would have to spend the rest of his years with the bitter aftertaste of what used to be love.

Oslan silenced the voice, choking it out of his mind. It didn't matter. He didn't regret it. He loved her. He would never regret it.

He wondered if an hour was over yet. He didn't want to return too soon. Oslan wanted her to have plenty of time to hide the Bear medallion. Once he returned, he wouldn't even bother looking for it. Even if she concealed it in an obvious spot, he wouldn't take it back.

Oslan counted the waves as they rolled onto shore towards him. Then, after a while, he stood and headed back to the village. He knocked at the door and stepped in. Arda was sitting at the small table. The Bear medallion was on the table next to her.

As Oslan closed the door behind him, Arda said, "I won't do it. I'm not goin' te keep ye leashed 'ere li' a dog. I'm not goin' te try and cup the whole ocean in me 'and. I won't do tha' te ye 'cause I love ye, an' if ye disappear, I won't hate ye." She stood and went to him, pressing her body up against his. Her hands slid up to his chest. Oslan closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers as he heard her whisper, "An' if a night is all ye can give me, I'll take it." He felt her warm breath brush against his lips. His hands tightened on her waist. He was going to prove her wrong.

He never wanted anything more than this.

* * *

 _"Piss an' shite!"_ His morning began with those words ringing in his ears and the covers being thrown into his face. His eyes flew open and he sprang upright, all drowsiness cast aside by his trained reflex. Movement caught his eye and he focused his attention on the loose black hair that swayed against her back as she wriggled into her pale stockings. Relaxed, Oslan leaned back to enjoy the way the translucent hose wrapped tightly over the curve of her rear.

"Arda—."

"I'm late!" she fretted. Her chin tucked down as her hands raced to button her blouse up. "Oh, I'll never 'ear the end o'it from Simms!" She yanked her work skirt from the top of the dresser and quickly stepped into it.

"Arda, I'm still here."

She paused, and then pulled the skirt up to her waist. "Ye are," she replied softly. "An' 'ow long are ye plannin' te stay?"

"Until you get sick of me."

Arda let out a quiet scoff. "The mountains'll crumble over 'fore tha' 'appens," she said, closing the last button on her vest. Oslan pulled the covers aside and stood up. He came up from behind Arda and pulled her hands away as she was tying her hair up in a bun. It fell back against her shoulders. Still holding her hands, he wrapped his arms over her stomach. He pressed his cheek against her temple.

"Take the day off," he said. "Spend it with me."

Arda laughed in disbelief. "Miss a day o'work? Me? I can't…" She trailed off as the witcher's lips grazed her cheek while his thumb slid against her jaw.

"Please?"

She turned in his arms to face him. "First I lay wi' ye," she said. "The first time I've lay wi' any man. An' now ye askin' me to skip me work. Yer turnin' me into a wicked garl, ye are."

Oslan pinched her chin gently between his fingers. "You could always just kick me out."

Arda slapped her hands over his bare chest. "Not when yer naked li' a babe li' this. Ye'd catch yer death o'cold."

"Hmm." He pulled his arms back and began fiddling with the buttons on her vest. "I'll need someone to keep me warm." The top button opened. Arda blushed and covered her vest with her hands. She quickly backed away from him, though there was a smile on her face.

"Be decent, witcher!" she cried. She turned away and took off her vest. "Fine, I'll stay 'ome today." Oslan pulled on a pair of breeches as Arda pushed open the shutters on the window. "Boot we can't stay inside, not when the day's lookin' li' this." The sky was clear with soft smears of cloud, and the sun bounced off of the white sand and glittering ocean. Oslan was looping the belt around his trousers when Arda walked back to him. He felt her fingertips touch his abdomen, feeling the round, mottled patch of scar tissue.

"Good times," Oslan joked.

"I'd strangle tha' witch with me bare 'ands if she tried te 'urt ye li' that again." Her hand glided up, feeling the bump of each scar. "Ye got so many, Oslan. Ye ought te be careful."

"From now on, I will." Oslan took up his undershirt, and then threw it aside. "You have any dress shirts, Arda? Maybe on the darker side—I think that looks better on me."

"I culd take a look aroond," Arda answered, the confusion clear on her face. "Why?"

"Have to look nice," Oslan answered as Arda began rifling through her father's dresser. "You don't deserve a man dressed in rags to be seen around you."

"Oh, I don't maind, really," Arda murmured as she raised a dark, wine colored tunic up to inspect. She ran a finger over the gold stitching on the shoulder, making sure that there were no loose threads. Then, she handed it over to Oslan, who looked over it appreciatively before pulling it on. It wasn't exactly his size.

"Little tight," Oslan remarked, running a hand across his chest where the tension was especially taut. He loosened the string that held the collar together, letting the tunic open and expose his collarbones.

"Da wasn't a very big man."

He caught Arda watching him, pinching her lower lip. When she realized she was staring, she quickly lowered her eyes. "Ah, you like what you see?" Oslan teased as he approached her. She was turning red. He grabbed her hands and planted a quick kiss on her nose. "Didn't know my little Arda was such a minx!" Leading her by one hand, he led her out of the room.

"Where are we goin'?" Arda asked.

"Urialla Harbor. There's a wedding going on. The ceremony's probably over, but I'm sure the festivities are going to last through the night."

He felt Arda give a little pull back. "Boot we're not invited guests!"

Oslan stopped and leaned towards her. "That's not going to stop us," he murmured to her. They hurried out the door. On the small table sat the Bear medallion.

* * *

 _There's no need to complicate it_

 _Dress it up or overstate it_

 _Without too much hesitation, here's the way I feel:_

 _I like you_

 _I like you_

 _Even when I don't try to_

 _Yes I do, that's the truth_

 _I like you_

"I Like You"—Ben Rector


	20. Chapter 20 - To the Happy Couple

When Oslan grew rigid, hearing someone approach the door, and told her to go into the bedroom, Arda became frightened. She thought they'd come back. She hurried into the room and shut the door behind her, her hands still gripping the handle tightly. Her eyes watched the trails of rain glide down the window as she strained to listen through the wood. Outside, Arda heard someone knocking on the door—loud, firm knocks. She held her breath as she listened to Oslan's footsteps. She couldn't bear the thought of her husband being out there alone to confront them. Foolishly, she cracked the door open.

The patter of rain was amplified as the front door was opened. Then came Oslan's voice, breathless and shocked. "Grandmaster?"

"Laddie," Arda heard a deep, rumbling voice say, "surely you'll not let this poor old man stand out in the wet and cold?"

" _No!_ No… Come in, Grandmaster." Arda heard his light footsteps, accompanied by slow, heavy ones. Her fingers were tight on the edge of the door, and she wondered whether she should risk a peek. It obviously wasn't _them_ again. But whoever it was seemed to have an air of dominance, a silent demand for respect. Arda could feel it even from behind the door.

"A rather cozy abode," the stranger remarked. Despite his husky voice, his tone was pleasant. Arda heard the familiar ruffling of a heavy coat being pulled off.

"Would you like a drink? Cyser, perhaps?" Oslan's inquiry was met with a rich chuckle from the stranger. Arda quite liked the sound of it. This one, he wasn't like the others. He felt safe, welcoming.

"Cyser? You'd spoil this old man." There was a creak, which Arda presumed was a chair taking on the weight of the stranger. "Nay, laddie, I've a stretch of travel ahead of me. Best to keep this mind free of the spirits. But this body's telling me it could do with something warm."

"Of course. Arda!" Oslan called. Quickly, Arda scurried out of the room and to the front where the men were waiting. As soon as she saw the stranger, she froze.

Even sitting, he was the largest man she had ever seen. He was like Simms, but where Simms was round and thickset, this man was built and robust. She could see the power of his body even under the thick pelts draped around his shoulders and over his thighs, which only served to enhance his size.

He was old, very old. His hair had completely grayed, eliminating any chance of discerning the color it had been in his youth. The top half of his hair was pulled back from his face by a large gold clasp, and the rest of it reached down to between his shoulders. His beard grew just enough to touch his chest and was held together neatly by more gold clamps. His eyes, small and deep under the ridge of his brow, were just like Oslan's.

Arda snapped out of her amazement. She tucked her hands together in front of her and dipped her head respectfully as the man looked to her. Oslan walked to her side and placed a hand gently behind her shoulder. " _Leannan_ ," he called her softly, his lips close to her ear. Arda desperately fought the chill that always brushed against her spine whenever he called her by that. "Prepare a mug of grenadine for our guest, please." She looked up to meet his gaze and nodded. As she turned, the grand man rose, carrying himself with a surprising swiftness.

"Hold up, laddie," he rumbled. "You'll not be sending off the dear missus without a proper introduction."

"Ah, right. This is—."

"Give me your name, lassie," the stranger said, stepping over to her. Arda's head craned back with every approaching step he took.

"Arda," she answered timidly. The man suddenly scooped her hands into one of his. With the other, he gently patted them. Arda was astonished to see how tiny her hands were, completely engulfed in his enormous paws.

"A lovely name for an even lovelier lassie," he praised. Arda felt her face grow warm and glanced at Oslan. There was an encouraging smile on his face, and he gave her a small nod. "I don't know what my boy's done to win your affection—he hardly deserves a bonnie like yourself." The smile promptly disappeared. Somehow, though his eyes never left Arda, the man could tell. Another warm chuckle came from his beard as he released her hands. "I'm Grandmaster Undevar, though you can drop the title if you'd like, lassie. But this boy—if you ever catch him calling me anything other than 'Grandmaster,' you give him a good wallop for me, aye?" Oslan's lips tightened into a firm line.

"I-I culdn't," Arda managed to stammer out.

"Ho, a sweet little lassie you are," Undevar murmured warmly. "My boy, he hardly deserves even half the likes of you." He straightened out and clamped a big paw over Oslan's shoulder, shaking the entire man's frame. "Laddie, when you've a woman like this, you treat her like a queen, you hear?"

"Yes, Grandmaster," Oslan answered almost naturally. He looked to Arda and gave her another small nod. She turned and quickly hurried to the kitchen to heat water for the grenadine. She paused every so often to listen, fiercely curious about the grandmaster's visit.

Chairs scraped as the two men sat down again. Oslan was the first to start talking. "I've never seen you off the island before," he remarked.

"As of late, it's a mighty risk," Undevar replied. "But this trip is more important."

"You've come to make me return to the guild," Oslan said, his voice growing quiet and stony, "haven't you?"

Wood creaked, most likely due to the man leaning forward. "Oslan," Undevar said sincerely. "I have come with no such intent. I've merely come to see my boy with his happy bride, and to wish them well. That is all."

"So you approve of this?" Arda crossed her arms over her stomach, her brow slightly furrowed as she concentrated to hear.

"No," came the abrupt response. Arda's heart skipped a beat. "Nor do I disapprove of it," Undevar continued. "This life is yours, laddie. The choices are yours. You can't go through making them and wait for me to nod or shake my head. All I want is for you to do right by the world—never stray from that. But never deny yourself what it is you want, either. If it is love bound in holy matrimony and a little place to call home, then have it."

Arda looked back to the kettle of water above the fire. The smallest trail of steam was rising from the spout.

"I wish Ko and Addie would understand," Oslan said. Arda heard the grief in his words. "But they don't. They hate me. I wish I didn't have to choose between them and this."

"Ah… those two. Aye, I noticed how they returned with a medallion not theirs. That boy, Kozin—he does not know how to handle his feelings. That is a weakness I have observed in him. Give him time to get over it, laddie. He is young. You all are." There was a soft groan, and the chair creaked some more. "You should know that you are still welcome to come back to the island, even if you have chosen to leave the witcher profession behind. You and the missus."

"I don't think I can come back."

"He'll get over it."

The trail had become a thick pillar of steam. The kettle whistled loud and shrill. Arda snatched up a dishtowel and took the kettle away from the heat. The two waiting mugs, both filled with dark red syrup, sat on the counter. Arda poured the hot water and watched the deep crimson liquid rise. Then she swept them up and brought them to the men with the swiftness of a seasoned serving girl.

"Thank you, lassie," Undevar said as he wrapped his hands around the mug. Arda nodded and turned. "Nay, have a seat," she heard the grandmaster say. There were only two chairs at the table, and there were both occupied. Undevar looked at Oslan. "Laddie, I know for a fact you've an able pair of legs. Sharpen your manners and let the missus sit down."

"'E don't 'ave te—."

" _Laddie_ ," Undevar prompted softly, his voice becoming sharper than a blade. Oslan jumped up from the chair as though the seat had suddenly become red-hot.

"Sit down, leannan," Oslan beckoned. Arda took his seat. Oslan stood beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder blade. She had to admit, she quite enjoyed it like this. She took Oslan's mug and offered it up to him.

"I'd reckon she's been up on her feet before the sun peeped over the edge," Undevar said. He took a sip from the mug. When he brought the grenadine down, the bottom tips of his whiskers were stained red. "The encumbrance of womenfolk is far beyond what we men can even dream of. You ought to thank the missus with a good foot rub every night." Arda lowered her eyes. She didn't how she would be able to bear a foot rub when his every touch shot through to her core. Even now, the small, soothing little circles he rubbed in her back were sending electricity through her nerves. And besides, most nights he already showed his gratitude, though it was a tad more intimate than a foot rub…

Arda blinked, feeling her cheeks burn again. She hoped terribly that her thoughts were not too obvious to the grandmaster.

Undevar seemed to take the flush as a simple show of modesty. As he slowly emptied his mug, he asked Arda about herself. He didn't delve too much into her childhood, and she was thankful for that. She told about the people she'd meet at the inn, people from all over Skellige. They brought their cheer and their stories with them, and listening to them was just as wonderful as flipping through the pages of a book.

The grandmaster's eyes lit up when she mentioned her books. He leaned back and reached into his coat. Arda watched as he produced a huge tome—the thing was about as thick as her arm. He placed it on the table with a _thunk_ and pushed it towards her. It was bound in dense leather, the surface of which was so finally treated that it felt smooth and soft to the touch. The title, written in beautiful calligraphy, was etched into the cover. It was in a language she couldn't understand, but the rest of the book, she discovered as she flipped to a random page, was written in common speech.

 _"Uirsgeulan a Dh'aom,"_ Undevar read, the speech rolling melodiously off his tongue. "A collection of famed Skelligan myths. I thought it an appropriate wedding present. A shame I was not able to attend the ceremony itself to bestow it." He shot Oslan a stern look. The blond man glanced away sheepishly. Undevar's eyes flickered to the window. He lowered the empty mug down and announced, "I think it's time I head back now if I'm to return before nightfall." Arda was amazed he was able to deduce the time of day through the rain and gray skies. She looked up at Oslan, and they seemed to exchange thoughts through their gaze. She rose as Oslan said, "We wouldn't mind if you stayed the night. There's a second bed."

Undevar let out a booming laugh, causing Arda to jump. "Preposterous!" he chortled. "I'd rather not spend the night in the home of two newlyweds, if you don't mind." The grandmaster came up to the window, inspecting his reflection. "Hmm," he purred, running finger through the edge of his whiskers. "That's not likely to wash out," he muttered to himself. "It seems I'll have to trim it or look like a vampire for the rest of my days." He turned back as Oslan offered the enormous fur coat back to him. "Your hospitality was most kind, my dear," Undevar said to Arda as he shrugged on the cloak. "Take care of my boy, won't you?" To Oslan, he said, "I wish you a bright and happy future, laddie. You've truly something special."

"Safe travels, Grandmaster."

Undevar glanced over his shoulder and offered the two his warm smile as he stepped out into the rain.

* * *

He could hear the plucked strings of the dulcimer and the fast, lively notes of the fiddle long before they reached Urialla's Harbor. The pounding feet and clapping hands invigorated him as he ran along the beach, leading her by the hand.

Urialla's Harbor was a flurry of activity. The celebration was taking place on the large, grassy field just outside the town and next to the beach. Oslan stopped to watch the festivities, holding an arm around Arda while she clung to him and caught her breath. The musicians were standing just outside the dancing crowd, tapping their feet and swaying their bodies in time with the score. The dancers, all pairs, held each other tightly as they whirled in tight circles to the rhythm of the music.

He could feel the excitement thrumming through Arda, and he himself couldn't wait to get into the fun. He parted from her and offered her an arm. "Well, miss?" he asked with an overly polite tone. "Will you honor me as your dance partner?"

Arda grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the crowd. "Shut yer gob an' take me dancin'!" They threw themselves into the crowd, bumping into a few people, and quickly assimilated. Oslan wrapped his hands around her waist, and she rested her hands on his shoulders. They followed the timing of the music and moved with the crowd. Arda laughed as they twirled breathtakingly fast, clinging onto each other.

There was something about that moment. Maybe it was how their movement blurred out the rest of the world so that he only saw her face. Maybe it was how his heart swelled at the sight of her joy. Maybe it was how he was having fun, the most fun Oslan had ever had in his life. But at that moment, he knew. _I'm going to marry this girl_.

Neither of them realized that the music had long stopped until they ran into another couple. Arda let out a yip as she stumbled, and Oslan quickly caught her.

"Oi!" the woman screeched.

"Sorry, mate!" Oslan apologized, his arms wrapped protectively around Arda.

"Had a little too much to drink, did you?" the man joked.

"Not enough," Oslan replied smartly.

The man guffawed. "That's the spirit! Here, have a round with me!" Before Oslan could reply, the man threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him away. Oslan shot an apologetic glance over to Arda as he was hauled away. She gave him a tiny wave.

Now that the wives had been worn out by the dancing, the men gathered around the wine barrels like animals around a watering hole. They held empty tankards in their hands, waiting. Standing by one of the barrels, one man raised a sword. Oslan watched in awe as he took the sword and stabbed the face of the barrel. As he yanked the blade out, deep maroon liquid shot out. There were cheers and cries of delight as tankards were shoved into the messy stream. Oslan stood back, watching the ones nearest the stream get drenched in wine. One particularly intoxicated fellow had his head held under the torrent, catching the wine in his open mouth.

Something was shoved into Oslan's chest, and his hands reflexively flew up to grab it. "A round, just as promised!" the man from earlier said, holding the flagon up for a toast. Oslan took the tankard and smacked it against his. "Aye, cheers! To the happy couple!" the man cried before throwing his head back.

"To the happy couple," Oslan repeated.

Others offered to take rounds with him, but Oslan declined. He backed away from as the men continued to guzzle down wine from the still-spewing barrel. Turning, he looked around for Arda. There were so many people, and they kept moving about! Perhaps she had gone to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom?

"You there!" a voice called out, clearly directed at him. Oslan stopped. A short old man scurried up to him. Judging from the man's elaborate dress, he could have been either the bride or groom's father. He squinted through his spectacles up at Oslan. "You're not on the guest list, are you? I don't recognize you."

"Well…" Oslan began easily. "See, I'm, uh… I'm the bride's brother's wife's second cousin, so…"

The old man's eyes narrowed even further. "The bride doesn't _have_ a brother. What's your name?"

"M-my name? Uh…" Over the man's head, Oslan spied her. She was eyeing him with a concerned expression. "See, here's the thing," he said lightly as he tried sidestepping around the old man. "I've really got to get back to my lady over there. She's giving me this look, see—."

 _"Guards!"_ the old man suddenly shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Oslan. "Guards, apprehend this man!"

"No, that's really not necessary! I'll be going now!" Oslan yelped, taking off. He heard the protests of the guests as the armed guards pushed through them. When he reached Arda, he grabbed her wrist, and they dashed through the crowd. Fortunately, the guards were having a rough time trying to get through an extremely drunken and rowdy group.

They ran into Urialla's Harbor. Oslan led Arda between the buildings, using the sound of the guards behind him to guide him. Then, quickly, he pulled her into the shadow of a house. They pressed against the wall, watching the parade of guards rush past.

"Oslan," Arda gasped once the coast was clear. "Those were _guardsmen!_ We were runnin' froom _guardsmen!"_

Oslan laughed, still giddy from the thrill of the chase. He turned to her and cupped her face in his hands. "I know," he said. "We're criminals now." Her eyes were wide with terror. He immediately felt guilty and kissed her. "I'm only kidding," he assured her. "What did we do? Have a dance, take a bit of wine. They'll soon forget about us."

Arda let out a soft sigh. Her hand drifted up his chest. Oslan smiled mischievously, sliding his hands down her waist. Suddenly, he felt her hand tighten on his collar and yank him down to her eye-level. "Boot don't ye _ever_ 'ave me runnin' froom guardsmen li' that again, ye 'ear?" she snapped.

"Yes ma'am," Oslan replied quickly.

Arda looked back, taking a quick peek around the house. "What are we goin' te do now? We can't go back." She looked defeated. It was clear she had wanted to spend more time at the wedding.

"You'll have another chance to dance at a wedding," Oslan murmured as he came up behind her. "Ours."

Arda looked up at him, confused. Oslan watched the realization slowly creep onto her face. With a gasp, she latched onto him with a hug. "Ours?" she repeated in a whisper.

"Ours."

* * *

The soft tugs on the back of his head were soothing. He felt her fingers gently weaving through his hair, pulling the locks together in a braid. Those mornings when he'd have to put his hair in a braid himself—he wasn't going to miss those.

"Yer 'air is so pretty," Arda murmured gently from where she knelt on the bed behind him. "I really li' this color. I 'ope our babes get it too."

Oslan tensed. The happy, carefree morning was suddenly gone. He should have told her. He should have told her a long time ago. Was it too late? What was she going to think of him now?

She must've sensed his unease. He felt her hands go gently on his shoulder, and she asked, "What did I say? Should I not be talkin' aboot babes?"

"Well, it's just…" Oslan knew he should've been looking her in the eyes when he told her, but all he could do was stare at the wall ahead of him. "I… Witchers can't sire children."

There was a long silence. Oslan's eyes bore holes into the wall. Her hands were still on his shoulders, but now they felt like crushing weights. He suddenly realized what he'd done. Through Arda, he'd tried to find a normal life. But in doing so, he was robbing her of that chance. He couldn't give her what a _normal_ man could. He was just too different.

Suddenly, he felt Arda's hands slide across his chest as she hugged him from behind. Her chin rested on her arm, and her cheek pressed against his ear. "Well I guess that explains why I 'aven't missed me month. What aboot a lil'kitty then?" she proposed. "One o'those lil'orange uns—I li' those."

"Cats don't like me much," Oslan admitted, recalling a memory of a not-so-pleasant encounter he had with a feline. The cat had seemed harmless at first, sitting atop the fence post. He'd reached out to pet it when all of a sudden it had exploded into a ball of spitting anger, latching onto his hand with every tooth and claw it had before shooting away.

"Hmm," Arda hummed, turning her face and burying it into the side of his neck. "A lil'pup?"

Oslan grimaced, thinking of the mess that Andryk called Aegis. "Maybe," he answered reluctantly.

Arda picked up on his tone. "So I guess I'm stuck wi' ye then?"

"I… I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's not so bad," Arda said, lifting her head up. She ran a hand down his braid. "'E's not too shabby, this 'un. Easy on the eyes. Knows 'ow te drive a garl mad… in more ways than 'un."

Oslan turned his head to look at her. "And how do I compare next to Frej?" he asked.

Arda laughed. "'Oo? Never 'eard o'im in me life." She leaned in to kiss him, but he quickly pushed her down and fell over her, catching himself with his arms. She gave a little squeak. "I've got te go te work," she hissed under her breath, but offered little resistance as Oslan kissed her shoulder and moved slowly towards her neck. He unfurled her fingers and lifted his head to look at her hand. He brushed his fingertips up her palm and felt the skin that ought not to be bare.

"Soon," he promised her, lacing his fingers between hers. "But I need to do something first."

"What's that?"

"It has to be special," Oslan said. "I need to find someone. I'll be gone for a few days—don't really know where he is right now." He saw Arda's eyes flicker down to the Bear medallion that had returned to his neck. "I'll leave it here."

"Keep it," Arda said, her gaze returning to him. "I want it te keep ye safe. I know ye'll coom right back—I trust ye."

"I won't be gone for long. And then when I come back…" He watched her smile.

* * *

 _And then you caught flame like a wildfire_

 _You came running into my life_

 _And you light up the dark, but I can't see_

 _How you belong to a boy like me_

"Wildfire"—Ben Rector


	21. Chapter 21 - Magic and Wedding Vows

He heard them coming long before they arrived and was already standing out front to meet them. He would have thought that Ko and Addie might have at least waited until the winter was over to see him, but their early visit overjoyed him nonetheless.

The moment Oslan saw them, a small bit of doubt began to grow inside of him. Kozin was marching straight for him, and Andryk lagged behind a little. Nevertheless, Oslan walked forward to close the distance between them. He threw his arms out in a welcoming gesture. "I didn't expect you so soon," he greeted with a small smile. "But that's fine! Come in and meet…" He trailed off as Kozin stopped in front of him. His brother's face held silent rage. Oslan felt his spirits drop. So his worries had been real.

Andryk stepped in ahead of Kozin, standing a little ways between the two. "We've just come te—."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Kozin demanded, his voice tense.

"Ko—."

"You can't just—."

"Let me explain," Oslan cut in briskly. "I'm not trying to push you away, but this is the life I want! Ko, I thought you'd understand. I'm happy here."

"You're a witcher."

"I don't want to be a witcher!" Oslan saw Kozin's jaw tighten. "I'm sorry I never told you. I knew it was something that wouldn't go over easy with you. But when I was _this_ …" He grabbed the Bear medallion on his neck and released it. "… I didn't like what I was! And then I met Arda and… Do you know what it's like? To be in love? She's the only person who ever made me feel like I was worth a damn." Immediately, he regretted his words. He saw hurt flash through Kozin's eyes, quickly replaced with fury.

"And us? Glad to know we never meant _anything_ to you!" Kozin snapped, his voice rising.

"I-I didn't mean…"

"Lads, easy now—," Andryk began.

"You think she's so special? You think she's your gateway to a happy life?" Kozin challenged. "You stupid, stupid _idiot!_ Didn't you ever stop to think? You're a goddamn witcher, and she's only human! One day, you're going to have to watch her die and—!" The next moment, Kozin's words were cut short as that fist collided into his jaw.

"Shut up!" Oslan shouted. _"Shut the fuck up!"_

Andryk reached forward to steady Kozin. The black-haired witcher recovered in an instant, straightening up and flying into Oslan's face. Oslan expected a retaliating hit, but instead Kozin glared at him with burning eyes.

"You're a coward," Kozin seethed through his teeth. "You want to be normal so badly? _Fine_. Then you don't deserve this." His hand shot up to Oslan's chest. Oslan felt a shooting pain on the back of his neck and heard the splintering of metal as chain links were snapped. Andryk took a sharp inhale.

Kozin stepped back, the Bear medallion crushed in his grip. The broken chain hung limp from between his fingers. Oslan was shocked, pain still tingling on his neck. Before he could say anything, Kozin turned his back and walked away. Oslan watched him, gnashing his teeth together. Anger and sorrow wailed inside of him.

Andryk was still there. He looked sadly at Oslan. "Os, he's just upset. We should—."

"Get out!" Oslan barked. "I don't want to see either of your faces! Get out!"

Andryk tensed. Then, lowering his eyes, he followed after Kozin. Oslan pressed his face into his hands, trying to steady his breaths. He didn't know how long he stood there, but eventually he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Oslan? Are ye okay?" she asked softly.

He looked at her. His face illuminated pain, but he replied, "I'm fine."

"But ye—." He cut her off with a kiss, holding her tight. Then he pressed his cheek against her hair, letting out a shaky sigh as he tried to calm the turmoil inside of him.

"I'm fine, leannan. Let's go inside."

* * *

On the third day, Arda started noticing the looks she was receiving when they thought she couldn't see them. When she'd look at them, they'd turn their heads away, but Arda could see the pity in their eyes. She would purse her lips and hurry away with her tray. They all thought he was gone. They all thought he'd left her. He was a witcher, after all. That was what they did.

He'd promised her, and she still believed in him. But on the first day, Arda came back to a house that hadn't felt so big and empty since her father passed. Still, she never lost hope. They could see that, and it made them pity her even more.

The third day, the looks were starting to drive her mad. As the agitation festered within her, it started to show itself. Arda didn't realize the impending disaster until she saw the tankards on her tray start to wobble. Then the unbalanced weight caused the tray to tip in her hand. She watched the foamy waves begin to slosh out. Her heart stopped.

Then, quickly, another pair of hands shot out and held the tray up. "You ought to go home," Emi said, pulling the tray away and balancing it onto her own shoulder. "Simms says you can take the rest of the day off."

Arda glared at her. "I'm faine!" she protested.

"Take the rest of the day off."

That's how Arda ended up back home when the sun was still high. She was back in that big, empty house. She spent a good few minutes pacing around the house, wringing her hands and trying to find a way to take her mind off of those intrusive thoughts—the ones that had echoed in their minds as they looked away.

She stopped at her bedroom door and saw it on her nightstand. The book. Arda sat on the edge of the bed, the book in her lap. She opened it and allowed her eyes to skim over the words. She didn't even need to read it; she knew every word by heart.

It was just like ten years ago, she realized. A young girl seeking solace in the book, in his words. The sad, lonely little girl who wondered when that handsome witcher would come back, if he would ever come back. Here, he wrote about the rain. The young girl had imagined herself under that rocky alcove with him. She wouldn't feel cold because his arms would be around her, and his hand would be stroking her hair.

Then, still engrossed in her fantasies, she had flipped to the last page and circled the name of her heart's captor. After closing the book, the little girl would return the harsh reality she was stuck in.

Arda closed the book. With a huff, she threw the book back onto the nightstand and flopped onto the bed. He had promised her. She had to trust him. And she would trust him up to the moment she lay in her deathbed—because she was a sad, pitiful little thing. Arda flipped over to face the empty side of the bed. It had stayed empty ever since he'd gone, ever since he had taken his armor and medallion and walked out the door. Even the missing swords, though they scared her, had at least brought her comfort knowing he was still there.

Her eyes welled up and burned, but she refused to cry. She trusted him.

Arda hadn't even realized she'd fallen asleep until she was being gently shaken awake. She buried her face deeper into the pillow, hoping that whoever was shaking her would stop. Then, she realized that she lived alone. Her eyes shot open and her head flew up.

He must have clearly seen the fright on her face. "It's okay, Arda. It's me," Oslan whispered, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The sight of his face caused the drowsiness to shed from her mind as she sat up.

"Y-yer back!" she stammered happily, throwing her arms around him. She felt him turn his face into her hair.

"I missed you too," he said gently.

"Did ye find 'oo ye were lookin' fer?"

"I did."

Arda looked to the doorway, expecting to see someone standing there. "He's not here. He told me he needs a few days to prepare."

"Prepare…?" Arda's eyes lit up. Oslan nodded.

"He seemed a little too excited when I asked him. Probably has never done anything like this before. I don't think he's going to disappoint."

* * *

She didn't know what the morning of her wedding would be like, but she hadn't expected it to be like this. A shrill, "What are you doing still in bed? Get up!" jolted her awake. Then cold air assaulted her skin as the covers were thrown aside. Arda immediately curled, but then a pair of hands grabbed her and hauled her up. She found herself face-to-face with Emi.

Behind her came a pleasant, melodic voice. "Perhaps we ought to be a little more gentle with the bride-to-be."

"If we were any more gentle, the groom'll be kept waiting into next week!" Emi retorted, half-dragging Arda out from the bed. As Arda stumbled to her feet, she saw the strangers standing in her bedroom. Both were women, and both were shockingly beautiful—the brown-haired one especially. She stood with an air of grace, one hand placed daintily on her hip. Her dark green dress looked insanely expensive. The other had short, bright red hair and was regarding Arda with a sour look. One hip was popped to the side and her arms were crossed.

"'Oo are ye?" Arda mumbled groggily to them. The one with ash brown hair opened her mouth to answer, but Emi quickly yanked her away, saying, "No time for introductions! We have to get you washed and glowing!"

By 'glowing,' the hyperactive girl must have meant 'raw.' The drowsiness was quickly dispelled as Arda was stripped and tipped into the tub, where Emi proceeded to scrub her skin red raw. Any protest Arda tried to make was met with a splash of water to the face and a, "Quit your gibbering! Do you want to get married or not?"

Finally, the harsh pumice stone left her skin. Arda breathed a sigh of relief as she hauled her bright red self out from the tub. Suddenly, a torrent of icy cold water crashed over her head. Arda tried to scream, but found no breath in her lungs. Her arms flew around herself, clasping her freezing skin.

"Well, can't have those pores gaping open during the ceremony!" Emi said as she tossed the bucket aside. "Do you got a dress ready?"

"Y-y-yeah," Arda stammered as she was dried off and herded out of the washroom and back into the bedroom. There, the red-haired woman was flipping through the clothes in the dresser.

"Plain… plain… _plain_ …" she was saying with each piece of clothing she tossed aside. "Ugh, I've never seen someone's wardrobe describe them so perfectly!"

The brown-haired woman was standing a short distance away, watching the ginger girl with a slight grimace. She was the first out of the two to notice Arda's return. She quickly flicked her wrist, and Arda heard something like a sharp zap. The red-haired girl immediately yipped and jumped up as though she had been bumped with a hot frying pan.

"Ah, there you are, sweetheart," the brown-haired woman greeted warmly, "looking as… crimson as ever. Where's your dress?"

"W-well, I was g-goin' te wear that 'un," Arda said, her teeth still clattering. She pointed at one of the dresses the red-haired girl had thrown onto the bed.

The brown-haired woman's brow furrowed, and the red-haired girl scoffed loudly. "I… I see," the brown-haired woman murmured. She threw a glare at the red-haired girl and said, "Cesna, go make yourself useful and see if the boys need any help."

A trail of grumbled protests followed the red-haired girl as she stormed away. Arda wondered why the girl seemed to have a personal grudge against her.

"Sweetheart, might I make a suggestion?" the woman asked once Cesna had left. She walked over to the bed and began pushing the thrown clothes aside. Finally, she unearthed a gold dress that had been buried underneath. The woman held up the dress, and Arda stared in amazement. "I thought I'd bring it along, see if you like it. It goes rather well with your dark hair."

The collar was cut into a wide square and traced by embroidered flowers. The sleeves ended at the elbow and were hemmed with billowing lace. The skirt of the dress contained two layers—dark gold satin covered by lighter gold gossamer that shimmered with every small movement.

Arda felt Emi grab her arm. "That one. Choose that one," she hissed into Arda's ear.

"It doesn't fit," Arda said softly, feeling her cheeks burn with shame. The dress looked as though it would fit the brown-haired woman perfectly, as slim and well defined as she was. And Arda, well… when she was naked like she was now, she found herself wobbling just a little too much.

A gentle smiled cross the woman's beautiful face. "It will," she assured. She released the dress and, to Arda's shock, it continued to hover in the air. The woman proceeded to 'measure' Arda's body by tracing lines it with her fingertip. Her finger, outlining the circumference of her waist, chest, arms, and other parts, left behind white glowing lines. Finally, the woman seemed satisfied with the measurements. She said something in a language Arda couldn't understand and pulled her hands back as though beckoning a crowd to draw closer. The glowing lines lifted from Arda's body and drifted over to the dress. The material began to shift as it readjusted itself to fit the new dimensions. Then, the woman grabbed the dress and draped it over Arda's front to examine in.

"'Ow did ye do that?" Arda asked.

"Do what?" the woman replied absently. "Oh, this will look lovely on you. Would you mind putting it on and letting me see if there are any more adjustments needed?"

"'Oo are ye?" Arda asked as she slipped into the dress with Emi's help. It fit like a glove.

"Me? My name is Theila. I'm but a simple maid here to make sure your special day is nothing short of magical," the woman replied with a mysterious smile. She turned away and took something that had been sitting on top of the dresser. It was a long black box. When Theila opened it, Arda saw what at first appeared to be an art box. It had a multitude of brushes and several sections of color like a painter's palette. Then Arda realized that it was a makeup box.

"Ye don't 'ave te," Arda said quickly. She had never worn makeup in her life. "I don't use much o'that."

"Of course. We don't want to cover too much of that lovely face," Theila agreed softly, choosing one of the brushes and dabbing it against her palm. "But a little definition around the eyes, a little coloring on the lips, does a world of difference." Arda gave in and sat on the edge of bed.

"Shut your eyes, sweetheart," Theila said. Arda obeyed, and quite liked the feeling of the soft brush patting her face.

"What about her hair?" she heard Emi asked.

"I think it looks nice the way it is," Theila replied. "What do you think, Arda?"

"I—," Arda began, but stopped when she felt something brush against her lips.

"Sorry, bad timing," Theila murmured. "Let me just do your upper lip real quick. Hmm… yes, a soft pink does like nice. It's a good color for a young girl. Well, sweetheart, what do you think?" Arda opened her eyes and found herself confronted with a hand mirror. She saw her reflection and a stranger at the same time. But whoever it was, she was beautiful. Her mind immediately jumped to him, wondering what she would look like to him. Dropping the hand mirror beside her, she raised her hands to her face and began crying.

"Oh dear, what did I do? Was pink not a good color?" Theila said.

"I'm getting married!" Arda sobbed in disbelief. "I'm getting married to _him!"_

"Arda, you're going to ruin your face!" Emi gasped.

"Let her be. She needs to get it out," Theila replied. She sat down next to the girl and wrapped an arm around her. "I know, sweetheart. It's a lot to take in. But you're going to be happy. You love him, right?" The crying girl nodded. "And I know he loves you too. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone through all the effort of dragging us out here."

After a while, Arda managed to compose herself. She dried her face and Theila touched up what the tears had smudged.

"Where's 'e waitin'?" Arda asked as Theila helped her stand.

"There's a small grove just north of here," Theila answered as they headed out the front. "That's where the wedding will take place. Your beloved has ensured your safe travel with a noble steed." They stepped outside of the house. Arda saw a tall, handsome elk standing patiently. Its broad antlers were decorated with blossoming vines, and a soft rug was draped over its back. As Arda approached, the elk settled onto the ground. She climbed onto its back and let out a soft yip as it swiftly rose. It seemed to know where to go on its own. Arda looked down and saw that with every step it took, flowers sprouted on either side of them. She wondered whom on earth Oslan had gone to find.

* * *

He glanced out to the horizon for what seemed like the millionth time. Upon hearing someone approach him, Oslan said, "You think that was a good idea? Sending the deer out? I could've brought a horse."

"Elk," the calm voice responded. "It's perfectly fine. That buck is gentler than all of Skellige's steeds put together."

"But it's a deer."

"Elk," Jannik repeated. Oslan looked back as Jannik reached up. The branch of a nearby tree lowered to him. The tip of the branch bloomed into light blue flower, which Jannik plucked. Tucking the flower into Oslan's black vest, Jannik continued, "May I borrow one of your swords?"

"Which one?"

"Does it matter?"

"Steel is for ordinary beasts, silver for monsters."

"Let's not bring the likes of monsters into this union," Jannik suggested. "Steel is the metal of man. Let's go with that one." Oslan gave him the sword, and the druid turned away. As Jannik passed a certain bitter-faced woman, he said, "Cesna, do try to smile when the ceremony starts. Even if it has to be faked." The young sorceress let out a huff.

The turnout was a lot more than Oslan had expected. Most were people who also worked at the inn, but there were quite a few others who apparently knew Arda or her father. Oslan turned as a large man came waddling up to him. His balding head had been neatly combed, as was his large, puffy mustache. "Laddie," Simms grunted, "You take care of that girl, aye? She's one of the hardest workers I've ever seen."

"I know," Oslan replied quietly.

"Arda told us about you, she did. Says she wouldn't be here today if it weren't for you."

"Is that why you're not spitting on my boots?" Oslan asked, remembering what Arda had told him about Simms's daughter.

"Laddie, I try not to pigeonhole everyone. But I have to admit, I had my doubts about you at first. Then Arda started smiling wider than I've ever seen, and I figured maybe you were different."

Oslan was speechless at first. He had never felt this accepted before. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, laddie. After the ceremony's over, we're taking this lot over to the inn. I've got enough ale and sturgeon ready to feed a party twice this big." Both men turned when Jannik called out.

"Oslan," the druid said. "Places. Your bride draws near."

Oslan's eyes widened. Panic flooded his mind. "What do I do?"

"Well first you should step up to the altar," Jannik suggested. "Then we'll see." Oslan hurried over to the altar—completely constructed by woven tree roots—as the druid stepped up with him. He gave Jannik another panicked glance, to which Jannik replied, "Witcher, you will stand here while I recite a sermon, gaze into the eyes of your beloved, slip the ring upon her finger, and kiss her to complete the union. There might be other stuff in between," he added in a mumble, pulling a folded piece of paper from his robes and opening it.

Oslan looked around. "Where are the rings?"

"Piko has them. He should be around here somewhere."

"Where's my sword?"

"Transported to Theila."

"Why did you give it to Theila?"

"Oslan," Jannik sighed. "You are bordering on insufferable. The bride presents the sword—it's tradition, or something like that. Anyway, the ceremony is about to start."

"Right, sorry… it's just…" Oslan caught sight of the elk as it neared the grove. He could see her on its back, and she was beyond beautiful. The sight of her reinstated his panic. "Jannik, what do I do?"

"Keep your mouth shut and smile," the druid replied, tucking the piece of paper away and readjusting his robes. The gathering sat down on the tree root-seats as the elk, flanked by Theila and Emi, arrived at the grove. The sorceress held the steel sword and passed it to the bride when she dismounted.

As Arda walked towards the alter, sword held gingerly in both hands, Oslan muttered to Jannik, "Is that a good idea? What if she cuts herself?"

"Mouth shut," Jannik reminded in a whisper, keeping the pleasant smile on his face.

As Arda drew closer, Oslan studied every detail on her. As he did, he felt a hot lump rise in his throat. He quickly lowered his eyes, squinting as he fought back tears. _Don't cry_ , he told himself. _Don't cry now, you div_. He felt Jannik give him a light touch on the shoulder.

"You'll make it," the druid assured softly.

Oslan took a deep breath and straightened up as Arda joined them on the altar. As they faced each other, Jannik delivered the sermon. He spoke of the couple standing before him and asked the gods to bless this sacred union. "And may Melitele bestow unto them her gift of fertility," the druid added with a humored grin. Oslan shot him a side-glance.

"And now, to grant the blessing of the gods to this deserving couple, I shall sprinkle the droplets of this sacred wine onto you both. Well, not me. Piko!" Jannik called out. Immediately, the squirrel appeared on his shoulders. A few girls from the gathering let out coos of delight. Jannik took a goblet of wine that had been sitting on the altar and raised it between the bride and groom. Piko daintily scurried onto the druid's forearm. "Do a good job, now. We want to make sure this couple is blessed."

Piko jabbered. With his forepaws, he flitted the wine up and doused the both of them with a generous spray. The gathering chuckled as Arda and Oslan flinched from the spray, except for a sorceress in the crowd who looked horrified.

"Okay, okay, Piko. That's enough," Jannik said quickly. Piko glanced at Oslan, who had wine dripping from his chin, and gave a satisfied chirp. Quickly, he returned to Jannik's shoulder and licked his soaked paws clean. "Piko," Jannik prompted. The squirrel looked up. "The _rings_." The squirrel gave a curious chirp and cocked his head. "Don't tell me… you didn't lose them, did you? _Piko_ ," the druid hissed.

Piko flicked his tail and quickly disappeared. Jannik turned back to the couple and gave them a reassuring smile. "The sword, please," he said, holding his hands out to Arda. She passed it to him, looking relieved that the weapon was finally out of her hands. Jannik oriented it so that the point of the blade faced the ground. "This sword, its blade strong and unyielding, shall symbolize the compactness between man and wife. And these rings…" Jannik held out an upturned palm. As he spoke, something small and golden fell from above and landed in his hand. The impressed crowd murmured. "… Represent the unbroken circle and the unbreakable bond between these two." Jannik glanced at his hand. A displeased look crossed his face. "The other one too, Piko," he prompted.

There was a series of jabbering that came from above, and then a rustling of leaves. Oslan flinched when something small and hard struck the top of his head. He managed to catch the ring as it bounced from his skull. More appreciative murmurs came from the gathering. Oslan quickly handed the ring over to Jannik. The druid's lips were pressed in a tight line as he gave Oslan an apologetic grimace. He shrugged.

Jannik took the rings and placed them around the hilt of the sword. Then, with both hands holding the blade up by the guard, he presented the sword and the rings to the couple. Arda and Oslan both took one.

Oslan took her hand, gazing into the eyes of his love as he slipped the ring onto her finger. She beamed as she looked down at her hand, and then placed the ring onto his. He held onto her hands tightly, refusing to let them drop. They looked to Jannik, who hesitated. It was clear the druid had reached the end of his lines.

"Just kiss now," he told them. And they did. They embraced, their lips finding each other as they kissed for the first time as husband and wife. When they did, the gathering burst from their reverential silence. Many cheered. Theila clapped and laughed softly. Cesna threw her head back and groaned. Emi, who had been crying silently during the ceremony, finally broke out into noisy sobs. Simms patted her on the back with one hand, and then proceeded to try and comfort all the serving girls around him who were also bawling.

When the two finally parted, they continued to hold each other. Suddenly, Arda gasped as Piko scurried onto her shoulder. He jabbered at Oslan, swiping his front claws at him and causing the groom to lean back. Then the squirrel started to lick the flecks of wine from Arda's cheek. A hand reached and snatched the squirrel by the midsection. Piko screeched as Jannik pulled him away. "You can't do that," the druid scolded. "She's a married woman now." Piko slipped out from his hand and buried himself into the druid's collar until only his fluffy tail poked out.

"All right girls, dry your eyes now," Oslan heard Simms say as he rose. "We're fixing to have a mighty hungry wedding procession to feed."

"Well," Jannik said. "It looks like we should head to the wedding feast." The elk emerged from between the trees with a snort. "The married couple leads the procession."

* * *

 _Dropped to one knee and looked in your eyes_

 _Said, "Won't you take my hand_

 _Take my heart_

 _Promise to never start dancing once we start."_

"Our Song"—Ron Pope

* * *

 _ **Addendum: 12/18 - If the image has finally processed, Arda should be on the cover. If she isn't, wait a day or two. If she is, have a gander. But don't stare for too long, or else Oslan might get up in your face and demand to know what you're looking at.**_


	22. Chapter 22 - A Little Too Much

_**This chapter is long af. It's a Christmas miracle.**_

* * *

The young lad was having trouble with his footwork. They always did when first exposed to the broadsword. Its hefty weight threw them off, and as a result their footwork suffered. Undevar stood at the edge of the practice yard, his arms crossed and his eyes focusing on the smallest details in the young man's movements. Immediately, his practiced mind picked up on all the good and bad points he saw in the lad's form. When the young witcher apprentice completed his drill and lowered the faux broadsword, Undevar dropped his arms and approached the boy. His mind was already formulating his critique, trying to craft it to be as constructive as possible.

"I see improvement, laddie," the grandmaster praised, taking the faux sword from the panting boy. "But your biggest flaw is how you manage the weight." He backed away, swooping the blade in wide, steady arcs. "I've noticed the strain in your arms as you swing. You're trying to control the weight, but that's a mistake. If you try to do that, you make the broadsword a burden. You merely guide the weight. It will on its own become the force behind every swing. Your only interference should be to either alter its direction or to slow it down."

The arcs became quicker, and the air whistled as it slid past by the blade. "When you find an opportunity to attack, you should use the momentum of the blade, not resist it. Each strike needs to be tight, controlled. You can carry that momentum into another powerful swing, or neutralize it like so."

With the faux blade still in motion, Undevar placed his left foot behind his right, pivoted on the balls of his feet, and brought the blade around in a diagonal slash so swift it left the air shrieking. Quickly, he rebalanced himself and brought the blade back over with a wide arc. Through the arc, he slowed the blade down until it came to a neat stop at the end of its loop.

Undevar flipped the blade over so that it's hilt faced forward and offered it to the apprentice. "Remember, laddie: guide, don't control. Now I want to see you do the heavy offense drill again. Keep your strikes neat, but make them powerful. With a real broadsword, you should be able to slice through a kikimore's shell like it was flesh."

He watched the boy go through the drill once more, noting the vast improvement with satisfaction. As he watched, the grandmaster heard the grating of a boat coming onto shore. It seems the two had returned with still no Oslan. Undevar ignored the sounds, giving the apprentice his undivided attention. "Good, laddie. You learn fast. In battle, that will give you the upper hand. Your movements still need sharpening. Practice, always practice. Now go rest up—you have interval training with Master Galon afterwards." He dismissed the apprentice.

Even from the practice yard, he could hear the scrabbling of Aegis's claws as she raced through the halls to greet her master. Undevar slowly trailed after the sounds of her excited wheezing. Then he heard a thud—probably the little pup running into the doorway again. He suspected that her engorged eye messed with her depth perception. Still undeterred, more rapid steps ensued as the dog continued to race out of the keep.

As Undevar emerged through the main entrance, he saw Kozin storming in. The grandmaster could feel the restless buzz of energy of a medallion—an extra one. This one, he knew, had been forcefully separated from its owner.

Kozin made to hurry past the grandmaster without a word, but Undevar caught him roughly by the shoulder and pulled him around to face him. "Even if you are no longer a pupil, you will show your grandmaster respect," he growled softly.

The young witcher stopped, He turned to face Undevar, and the grandmaster saw pain and rage deep within the amber of Kozin's eyes. "Grandmaster," the young witcher said with a stiff dip of his head.

As he turned away, Undevar said, "I did not dismiss you, laddie." Kozin stopped and Undevar crossed his arms, regarding the black-haired witcher with a stern look. "What is that in your pouch?" the grandmaster asked, and the both of them were perfectly aware that Undevar already knew what it was. "A witcher should never part with his medallion. I've told you that."

"He's not a witcher!" Kozin snapped. "He turned his back on us! I thought he died! I was going to go find him because damn it, I cared about him! And then he just… _decides_ he doesn't want this life anymore—this life we had together! He's a coward!"

"Oslan has strayed past the comfortable boundaries of his old life to find a new one, bearing the risks to obtain happiness," Undevar stated. "To me, that is not cowardice. That is bravery."

"Bravery? He's a fool!" Kozin snatched the Bear medallion from his pouch and threw it against the wall. It chipped the stone and clattered on the ground.

Undevar stepped towards him, seeming to grow twice in size as he roared, " _Pick that UP._ " Kozin flinched, but refused to move. His furiously defiant stare frightened Undevar to the core. What had happened to the boy? "Lad," Undevar, his voice deathly soft as he advanced on the young witcher. "You've changed. I had high hopes for you," As he leaned down to glower into Kozin's eyes, he saw the boy's defiance wavering as the words sunk in. "But now you've just left me very, _very_ disappointed. If anyone's medallion should be on the ground, it ought to be yours." He straightened up and walked away, leaving Kozin behind.

On his way to the grandmaster's wing, Undevar spotted Roffe. The mage was tending to a splintered pillar, no doubt damaged by a bit of rough play among the young ones. "Roffe," Undevar greeted, "let the other masters know that I'll be gone for the entirety of tomorrow."

"Gone?" Roffe repeated quizzically as the cracks in the column continued to slowly fill.

"Off the island. There's someone I need to pay a visit to," Undevar clarified. Upon seeing the mage's concerned look, he quickly added, "No, no. I shall be fine on my own. I'll return by nightfall."

"I see. I'll let them know, Grandmaster."

Undevar took a few steps, and then hesitated. "Roffe," he said. "What do you think would make a good wedding present?"

* * *

As expected, the inn became a tight squeeze for the procession. To improvise, Jannik and Cesna conjured up round, stumpy tables from the ground around the inn. However, no one felt like sitting down quite yet, especially with the rather interesting musicians providing the tunes to dance to.

Theila stood by the ensemble of fiddles, tapping a finger against her chin. "There was this wonderful melody I once heard in… If I could only remember how it went—it would make such a fine first dance for the couple. Well, little one?" she asked the squirrel that was purring contently against her neck. "You wouldn't happen to have a memory-recalling charm to help this old girl out, would you?" Piko's only response was to rub his head lovingly against her jaw. "Ah! I've got it."

Under the sorceress's enchantment, the fiddles rose into the air as if supported by invisible musicians. One began to start, drawing the bow across the strings to produce a slow, sweet melody. Then, the others joined in, complimenting the first in harmony. Theila glanced over to Oslan, who quickly took the cue.

Rising, he held a hand out to Arda. "I promised you another dance, didn't I?"

"Ye did," Arda agreed joyfully as she took his hand. Oslan whisked her out to the open grass in front of the playing instruments. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and when they began to dance, one of the fiddles' strings began to pluck out a cheerful tune. Then others began to join in—old couples, young, blossoming couples, strangers even. A very giggly Emi whirled around with Jannik. Simms and his equally portly wife were taking up a good amount of space. Even Cesna had settled with a brawny lad, though she occasionally threw longing glances over at the groom. A brave young man even approached Theila for a dance, but was quickly herded away by a shrieking and clawing squirrel.

The sorceress chuckled and reached up to scratch Piko's back when he returned to snuggle against her. "You wouldn't want to try that if _he_ was here," she suggested to the little critter. "He'd add you to his collection of pelts." Piko gave an indifferent chirp and continued to nestle against her neck.

The song ended with a long, drawn out note. Couples parted and headed into the inn to fuel up. A few people stood around to chat. Only one pair was still embraced and slowly spinning.

"Oslan, the music stopped," Arda whispered, her cheeks slightly flushed from embarrassment. He refused to let her go.

"Doesn't mean we have to," Oslan whispered back. "We're just going to keep dancing until—."

"Alright, alright! The two of ya will get the rest of your lives to gaze into each other's eyes! Quite hogging her, mister groom!" a voice ordered. Emi placed her hands on her hips and stared intensely at Arda. "We have something _really_ urgent to talk about."

Arda gave Oslan a concerned glance. "Ye don't mind, sweet'eart?"

"No, go ahead," Oslan replied. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards the inn. "I'll be inside getting a drink if you need me, okay?" As soon as Oslan turned away, Emi grabbed Arda's arm and pulled her close. "We need to talk."

"What?" Arda demanded. "Did someone get 'urt?" Another song began to play from the enchanted fiddles.

"Hurt? No." Emi gave Arda a little shake. "I need your help! That guy who oversaw your wedding—what is he?"

"Oversaw?"

"Yes! Long hair, a little bit of scruff, _dreamy_ eyes! Is he a priest?"

Arda realized Emi was talking about the man who recited the lines during the wedding. Jannik was his name, according to Oslan. "I don't think so. I think 'e's a mage? _Druid_ , 'e's a druid," Arda corrected.

"Oh… are druids celibate?"

"Emi," Arda cooed. "Did he catch someone's eye? Weren't ye dancin' wi' 'im?"

"Yeah, but he acted so friendly, so… formal. Does that mean he's not interested? Was he just tolerating me, then?" Emi looked to be on the verge of tears as she frantically fanned her face.

Arda glanced over Emi's shoulder. "Was 'e actin' li' that?" She nodded towards a dancing pair. The girl was fluttering her eyelashes at Jannik as they moved. Emi puffed up as she watched them, balling her hands into fists.

"What? I can't believe she—that Ilah!" she fumed. "I swear I'm gonna… _ergh!"_

"Relax," Arda soothed. "She doesn't look te be 'is type."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Listen, darlin', jus' go an' ask 'im fer another dance if yer so keen on 'im. I'm goin' te go see what Oslan's up te, aye? Good luck." Arda gave a wave over her shoulder as she hurried into the inn. She spotted a large group of men gathered around the counter. Over their heads, Arda could see Oslan's blond hair. Simms was passing out tankards around. "A toast!" he announced. "To the lucky man in front of me!"

"Aw shucks, man," she heard Oslan say. "How many toasts you gonna make?" His voice was slightly slurred. Arda wondered how many rounds Simms had subjected him to already. The lively innkeeper had a reputation for having a very generous hospitality.

"This is your wedding, lad!" Simms replied. "We've got to treat you! Make toasts to all the necessary things—good health and all that."

"Can't argue with that," Oslan replied.

"Come on, witcher!" one of the men egged. "Let's see you do it! Down it all in one go!"

"Easy," Oslan boasted. He threw his head back, and Arda watched in amazement as he chugged the entire thing down. The tankard didn't come back down until it was empty. The men nearest him slapped him appreciatively on the shoulders, belting out praises. Simms caught sight of Arda.

"Ah, come on, lass! Care to have a round with your dear old husband?" he invited.

"Nay," Arda declined. "I serve the stuff—I don't drink it."

"Fair enough. I suppose you've come to drag him off?"

"Let 'im 'ave 'is fun," Arda said with a little wave. "Take care o'im, Simms."

As she hurried out, she heard Simms say, "Lad, there's not a sight sadder in the world than an empty flagon. Give it here—I'll cheer it up for you."

* * *

Hardly a minute had past and the squirrel was back up on her shoulder. His cheeks were stuffed full of carrot shavings he'd taken from the plates of sturgeon, and his claws grasped handfuls of more shavings. Piko chirped happily, the sounds muffled by his packed mouth.

Theila watched as the squirrel attempted to shove more carrot into his mouth. "Quite an appetite you have there," she remarked. Piko's tail flicked.

Footsteps approached. "I'm surprised that men aren't clawing over each other trying to get to you," Jannik said.

"Your little friend here has been playing guard dog for me," Theila replied. Piko had successfully stuffed one handful into his bulging face. "But look at you—dancing with every girl here."

"Not every," Jannik corrected.

"You know what I mean."

"I admit it's a little bizarre."

"Bizarre?" Theila groaned and rolled her eyes. "You druids are much too prudish for your own good, you know." She nodded towards a girl that was talking with the bride. "That one—I can tell she's enamored by you."

"Hmm," Jannik mumbled.

"Oh, you're still young. Get rowdy, make some mistakes. Have nights you'll regret."

"That's a surprise, hearing this come from you," Jannik mused. "'One-horse-in-the-stable' Theila."

The sorceress crossed her arms. "There might just be one horse, but believe me, it still kicks." She laughed. "How dare you turn this conversation back to me, you crafty little tree-lover! Now come on. Go make that girl's day."

Jannik sighed. "I don't think I want to make the same mistake as our dear groom." In a quieter voice, he added. "I'll admit, I was hesitant when he asked me to do this. I only agreed because he's a good friend. He's making a mistake."

Theila took a deep breath. The druid's words were true. Oslan's happiness was going to be short-lived. "Didn't I just say?" she said with a sad smile. "Young people ought to be making mistakes." She wondered if Undevar would agree. And speaking of the grandmaster… "I'm a little surprised to see only one witcher at this wedding."

"Oslan told me his reasons," Jannik replied. "He expressed to me his worries of what the others might think. He knows this won't sit well with some of them."

"Not the grandmaster," Theila said without hesitation. "Undevar loves weddings. We went to one in Toussaint a while back. Despite his size, he's surprisingly light on his feet. Didn't know how to waltz to save his life, though; I spent the entire evening trying to teach him." The sorceress's eyes were distant, seeing a different wedding take place in front of her.

* * *

With a sigh, Arda settled at one of the outdoor tables, grateful to finally have a chance to rest her feet. Funny how the ache felt like the same one she got on a regular day at the inn. Arda looked up at the darkened sky. Evening had nearly passed. Rubbing her neck, she glanced towards the building. Oslan was probably still in there. She'd joined him earlier for a round, though she had him finish most of her tankard. Were they still in there, toasting to every little thing that came to mind?

"Arda!" One of the serving girls hurried up to her. "I think you ought to take dear husband home."

Arda quickly rose. "Did somethin' 'appen?"

"He's blootered out of his mind," the girl replied. "And he still won't stop downing ale. They've got some sort of drinking game going on."

Arda followed the girl into the inn. The benches had been pushed to the center of the main room. The air was heavy with the stench of alcohol. The men who were still conscious were clustered at one end of the benches. Theila was standing next to them, looking thoroughly displeased. Arda heard his sluggish, drunken voice above the rabble of the rest.

"Nnn I'muh tellin' ya mmmate, I tell-ellin' ya, whenn she wruh-ruh-wraps her legs 'round me like th-that I just lose connntrol mate, I tells ya."

Arda stopped where she stood, feeling her face grow prickly and warm as she began to realize what Oslan was talking about. Almost as if to confirm her fears, Theila snapped, "That's highly inappropriate to your wife to be talking about that so openly like this."

"Ahhh, yer a lucky man!" one of his companions said as all ignored the sorceress. Theila threw up her arms in frustration.

"I know!" Oslan replied giddily. Shutting eye, he squinted at his tankard. "How much isszzs left? I can't tell. Oi, Simms, mate! Things rrr lookin' a bit sad o'rrr here!" He turned lazily when Arda marched up to him. "Arda, honey!"

"Ye said her name. Ye gots'ta drink," one of the men reminded him.

 _"Shit."_ Oslan threw down another swig. Then, he turned back to his bride. She was standing silently, arms crossed. "Y'know, me annn' the other l-lads were talkin', and thurrr's an issue we need to t-talk about."

"Yeah?" came the unamused response.

"Yeeeeah. Arda—."

"Drink."

 _"Shit_. _"_ Oslan paused to empty his tankard a little more, and then continued, "Ya gotta mum-make a lit-t-tle bit more noise, honey." He threw his hands out, accidentally slapping the man next to him. The fellow was too drunk to complain. "I mean, d-don't get mmme wrong, those lil'noissses ya make arrre dead cute, buh-but frrr the most part isss just me huffin' and puffin'. It's like a duet, Arda—."

"Drink."

 _"Shit_ … L-like a duet, we gotta sing togetherrr, y'know? And— _owww, ow, ow!"_ Arda cut him off when she reached out and yanked Oslan up by the braid.

"That's enough outta ye!" Arda snapped. "I can't believe ye let ye'self get com'letely pissed li' this!"

"Take him home," Theila told her. "I'll wind things down here."

Arda grabbed the front of Oslan's vest and hauled him out of the inn. When they stepped out into the night air, a few curious eyes turned to them. Arda felt Oslan stumble and quickly whirled around to catch him. "Come on, ye drunken numpty," she grumbled as she supported him over her shoulders.

"Sssorry," Oslan slurred as they limped towards the small settle of houses nearby. "I can use'ly see things a'night, buuut I can't really see anyth-th-thing right nowww." He suddenly broke out of Arda's grip and seized her by the waist. Even completely out of it, he was still rather strong. "Commme on, honey. Lezzz have anothrrr dance, yer annn' me. Come on, I p-promisesed ya."

"No," Arda replied firmly, peeling Oslan off of her and gingerly leading him away again. "We're goin' 'ome, aye?"

"Ohhhh," Oslan said. "Tuh do a lil'dancin' innn privavite, right? Arrrda, ye littlllle minx, you… _Shit_ , I gots'ta drink againnn…" He felt the air around him. "Where's muh tankrrrd?" Arda yanked him along. The walk between the inn and the house never felt so long. She'd been around enough drunks to know that Oslan had ingested too much alcohol, even if he was some superhuman witcher. His body was fixing to reject the poison soon.

"Arda, Arda, Ardaaa," Oslan mumbled. "I gotta w-water thur grass, honey."

She'd never heard that expression used before. "All right." She held him by the shoulders and turned him, still not trusting his ability to stand on his own. "Jus' go right 'ere."

Oslan tried pushing her away, but instead just swatted her forehead. "Go awaaay," he garbled. "This is p-private. Don't lookie at muh snake."

"I'm yer wife, ye dafty!" Arda hissed. "Now unboockle yer damn trousers an' go!"

"Okeee, b-but try not tuh get too exzzited, honey." Arda didn't feel the least bit aroused as she listened to the splattering on the grass and glared into the darkness. After a while, she said, "'Ow's it takin' this long?"

"I'mummm a big man, gotta big tank nn me," Oslan answered. After a while, he stated, "Kaaay, done." He started to turn away.

"What are ye doin'?" Arda snapped. "Poot it back in yer trousers!"

"Ohhh yeah. I furgitted." He fumbled with his belt buckle until Arda had to help him. Then they resumed their tedious trek back home. Arda couldn't stay mad at him. He wasn't always like this—it was their wedding, after all. But she wished they could have had at least one more dance before he'd gone off to drink himself silly.

"Arda, why d-do ye love me?"

"I'm beginnin' te wonder that meself," Arda replied sarcastically. She didn't realize he was too drunk to recognize the humor in her words.

"Is 'cause I'mmm a freak, right?" He sounded upset.

"No, no, darlin'," Arda reassured. "I was jus' 'avin' a lil'tease."

"I _am_ a freak," Oslan mumbled. "They turnnned me intuh a freak. I guh-gots cat eyes, I can't give ye no babes. Why do ye love me?"

"Yer aboot as much o'a freak as the rest o'us," Arda told him. "An' ye saved me life, remember?"

"Ahhh, I'mmm sure somumone else would'a…"

"'Oo?" Arda asked. "No 'un li'ed me. I was li' a freak too."

" _Arda!"_ Oslan chided. "Yer notta freak, honey! Yer goddamn sexy b-beauu'ful." He turned to her and grabbed her. Arda managed to scrunch her eyes closed before he planted a messy kiss over her right one. "Gah, yer s-such a bonnie, I jus' wan-wanna have ye right herrre." His hands clawed at her dress. Arda quickly grabbed them and pulled them off to save the beautiful fabric.

"Oslan!" she hissed. "We need te go 'ome! Yer not feelin' right an' I need te take care o'ye."

"Okaaay." As they continued to limp on, Oslan continued, "But I'm serrrus, Arda. I j-just wanna bury muh-my face in yer bosom." How romantic.

Eventually, they made it home. Arda settled Oslan into a chair with a bucket and a handkerchief while she hurried to go prepare a mug of water. She couldn't help but think of what he'd said earlier. Ever since she had met him, she adored that part about him—the witcher part. Those eyes, the way he'd swung his sword at Melusine, even that strange smell, always made him more mysterious and handsome to her. Arda never realized Oslan disliked what he was. No wonder he'd been so quick to lay down his swords and don a ring instead. No wonder he stayed after that night. She quickly vowed to herself that she would no longer love him as a witcher, but as a man.

"Honey, th-the room isss spinnin'…" she heard Oslan mumble. Arda grabbed the mug and hurried back, knowing that it wasn't long before the sturgeon was going to swim back upstream. "Can ye m-make it slow dow—." Suddenly, he lurched off the chair and onto his knees. Arda dropped beside him and shoved the bucket underneath him. She held Oslan's head up while he not so gracefully emptied his stomach. Then, he leaned against Arda, groaning. She gently cleaned his face with the handkerchief.

"I'm dyinnng," he moaned.

"Yer not," Arda replied, rubbing his back. She helped him back up onto the chair and slid the mug in front of him. "Drink this, an' then I'll take ye to bed," she ordered softly. She picked up the bucket and took it outside to clean. When she came back in, she found Oslan with his head resting on the table. She checked the empty mug, and then gently shook him awake. "Come on, darlin'. Let's go te bed," she coaxed gently.

Oslan rose, slightly less clumsy now, although his brain for the most part still hadn't returned. "Yeyeyeah," he stammered. "It'szz time tuh connn'smate the marriage, right?" He clamped a hand firmly over her buttocks.

"No," Arda replied. "It's time fer ye te sleep off the drink."

"Buh-but honeeey—." Oslan suddenly belched loudly. "Whuh, sorry. That wasss the sturgeon's ghost comin' out." Arda led him to bed. "But Arda, we g-gots'ta comumplete the union! Come on, honeeeey!"

"Tomorrow," Arda said. "When yer not a stammerin', slobberin' mess." She unbuttoned his vest and pulled it off, while in the meantime trying to fend off his sloppy, drunken kisses. As she was tucking him into bed, Oslan grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him. Before she could get back up, he had her locked in a tight kiss. The will to fight down died as she clutched the sheets. Even when he was like this, how could she resist him? She felt him pulling the skirt of her dress up. Her legs came up on either side and squeezed into him. Well, if he was so eager, she didn't see any reason not to—.

She felt, and then heard, the rumbling in his throat. Before she could react, Arda felt sickly hot air being forced into her mouth as Oslan belched again. Her head flew up. A revolted cry escaped her lips and she coughed. She quickly pulled herself off of him as he pathetically grabbed at her.

"Huh-honey I'm sorry!" he apologized as he tried to sit up. Arda pushed him back down.

"Jus' go te sleep," she snapped.

"Are ye mad at mmme?"

"No," she sighed as she sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his arm. "Boot ye need te rest. Ye jus' got me sidetracked."

"But w-we were gonna—."

"Oslan, ye go te sleep or I swear I'll knock ye oot wi' a fryin' pan," Arda interrupted. Oslan sighed, but didn't argue. She gently rolled him onto his side before heading to the washroom to rinse her face. She delicately pulled the dress off and, returning to the bedroom, draped it over a chair. Finally, she crept under the covers and settled her head onto the pillow.

"Arda?" Her eyes flew open. She thought Oslan had gone to sleep already.

"What?"

"I looove you." During the nights they were passionately intertwined, those whispered words would send fierce chills running through her. Tonight… they didn't quite have the same effect.

"I love ye too," Arda replied, closing her eyes again.

Oslan suddenly rolled over to her. "Well heeeello there, pretty lady," he greeted. Arda felt his fingers creep under her panties. She snatched his wrist and pulled his hand up. "Sleep," she demanded.

"W-well can I put muh face in yer breasssts?"

"Why the 'ell wuld ye ask fer soomthin' li' that?"

"Pleeeaase?"

Arda let out a deep sigh. "Faine," she agreed. Oslan didn't hesitate and quickly plopped his face down onto her chest. She reached up and gently patted the back of his head.

"Thsssis nice," he mumbled, his voice muffled. The vibrations tickled her. Arda pursed her lips.

"All right, that's enough," she told him. "Ye can't rightly breathe in there."

"Naah, _naaaaah_ , I'm fiiiine," Oslan replied. "I'm gonna live in here forevrrrr." Arda closed her eyes, wondering if she'd be able to fall asleep like this. Suddenly, her eyes flew open. Oslan was blowing a raspberry into her bosom. "Ye like that, honey?" He did it again. Arda grabbed his head and pulled him off.

"I don't," she declared. "Now ye 'ad yer fun. It's time te sleep."

"But I don't waaanna sleep," Oslan protested as Arda rolled him onto his side again. "I wanna muh-make loooove! I'm not tireddd." Shortly thereafter, Arda heard him softly snoring away. She snuggled against his back, wrapping an arm around him so he wouldn't roll over. She pressed her cheek against his warm skin and closed her eyes, silently thanking the gods for giving her this goofy, drunken slob.

* * *

He was vaguely aware of something that sounded like a pitiful, wounded animal. Then, he became aware that the sound was coming from his own self. His skull felt like it was slowly trying to tear itself open. Oslan raised his hands and clutched his head.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder. "Good mornin', darlin'," he heard her say. "I know yer feelin' down. Try te sleep it off."

"It feels like a giant is sitting on my head," Oslan groaned.

"Jus' get soom food an' water in ye, an' ye'll feel better," Arda assured.

As she rose, Oslan asked, "What happened last night?"

"What do ye remember?"

"Umm… the inn… Simms had us toasting about… something. And then they had me drink every time I said your name… they said I talked about you too much… that's it. How did the rest of the wedding go?"

"Well," Arda began. "I 'ad te drag yer sorry arse 'ome. Ye was outt'er yer mind blootered."

"Oh no…" Oslan fought through the pain to recall the last time he had been that drunk. The memory of Andryk telling him about his little encounter with the drunken lass in the corner of the tavern rose up. "Please tell me I didn't…"

"Ye were dead set on trayin' te pool me dress off. Kept whinin' aboot needin' te consummate the marriage," Arda continued.

Oslan squeezed his eyes shut. "Did I? Ugh, I'm sorry Arda. I probably ruined things for you, didn't I?"

"Actually it was a lil'endearin'," Arda replied, "seein' ye li' that." He heard her set something down on the nightstand. Oslan opened his eyes and saw a cup. "Take it easy," she told him. "I'll go fetch ye a bite, aye?"

"Arda?"

"Hm?"

"Did I say anything else last night?"

There was a pause. Then, Arda replied, "A bit more," she admitted. "Boot it was a right mess, the stuff comin' outta yer mouth. Culdn't make a lick o'sense oot o'it. I don't think ye were meanin' anethin'."

"Okay. Arda… I love you."

"Love ye too." He felt her plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. Oslan turned his head into the pillow as Arda walked out of the room, trying to block out the too-bright sunlight that was leaking through the curtains.

* * *

 _Last night I think I drank too much_

 _Call it our temporary crutch_

 _With broken words, I tried to say,_

 _"Honey, don't you be afraid_

 _If we have nothing, we have us."_

"Something I Need"—One Republic

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Here's a bit of clarification for those who are confused-the very first parts of chapters 19 through 22 happen after the wedding. The chronological order they occur in is 19, 21, 22, 20.**_


	23. Chapter 23 - No Return

Winter was drawing to a close again. The shores would melt and the same question always resurfaced: _where to?_

The question came to Andryk's mind as he applied lavender oil to Aegis's boils. The dry winter air was making the poor thing's bald patches flake, and she was starting to leave behind considerable trails of skin flecks. It had gone to the point where the other witchers had demanded she stay outdoors. Andryk had taken her to eastern courtyard—the warmest place outside the keep because of the nearby smithy.

Aegis was lying on her side, enjoying the treatment. She lazily rolled onto her back so that Andryk could get to the patch on her belly. "So, little lass, where are we off te?" he asked her. "Anyplace but An Skellig. Ye weren't there, but it was made very clear that we aren't welcomed there anymore." He could joke about it to Aegis. Though the pain was still there, thrumming in the background like a day-old wound, talking to Aegis made it hurt less. Of course, he wouldn't dare mention anything about _it_ to Kozin. It had been nearly four months, but Andryk wondered if the black-haired witcher would ever let the anger go.

Irate mumbling and clumping, heavy boots on the dry grass caught the red-haired witcher's attention. Both he and Aegis looked over to see a stout figure crossing the courtyard towards their direction. Andryk was surprised to see him leaving the smithy—he hardly ever did.

Demir was one of the few dwarfs who worked in the School of Bear smithy. Undevar had a section of the keep devoted to a residential area for the workers of the guild, but Demir's bed sheets were so unused and crinkle-free they looked like sheets of ice. Instead, the dwarf practically lived in the smithy. He only arose from his den to restock his hoard of food and to refill his flask of what Andryk assumed, judging by the smell, could only be lantern oil.

The only thing smellier than the contents of that hollowed horn was the dwarf's personality. It was astounding how much sourness was stored in that tiny body, though maybe a little was also in Demir's beard. He was grating and pushy, _especially_ when students were in his smithy. The one person he really tolerated was Undevar, the only one whose smithing skills surpassed all of the resident dwarfs'.

Today Demir was looking even sourer than he usually did, a phenomenon that bordered on impossible. As he stomped closer, Andryk heard "brat" and "taking up all the ploughin' space" huffed from within the dwarf's beard. As Demir drew closer, Aegis quickly hopped up onto her paws and hid behind Andryk. She had been terrified of the little man ever since he'd chased her with a pair of glowing, hot smithing tongs after she'd urinated on the anvil.

Andryk wasn't terrified of him. He loved the dwarf—Demir was absolutely hilarious. "Oi, who's pissed in yer ale today?" Andryk called out.

"Useless, _useless!"_ Demir snapped in response. "And he's using _meteorite_ too! That's for swords! Not some daft little art project! Useless!"

"Someone in the smithy using your precious meteorite?"

"Aye, and he's been in there all morning! I should know—he's been getting in my way since the crack of dawn, that brat!" Demir suddenly pointed an accusing finger at Andryk. "Don't think this means anyone can go into the smithy as they please! No brat is allowed in there without permission! The grandmaster'll hear o'this, he will! So don't even think about getting near there! And keep that lump o'ugly," he barked as he directed his finger at the whining Aegis, "far, _far_ away from my smithy!"

As the dwarf tromped away, Andryk reached down to pat Aegis's head. Demir was intolerable on most days, but he could make a damned good sword. Plus, watching all that hate seethe out of that tiny body was hysterical. "Don't worry, little lass. He won't hurt ye. He'll bare those stumpy little fangs o'his, but he never bites." Aegis crept out from behind Andryk and flopped back onto her back, staring up expectedly at Andryk.

Andryk looked over at the smithy. He knew who it was that had been there since morning. Andryk hadn't seen him all day, but he'd figured that he had just been somewhere moping and smoking like he'd done all winter. Apparently, today was different.

* * *

The downside about having nothing to fear was that it cajoled people into letting their guards down. An Skellig enjoyed a monster-free period, a period prolonged by the winter months. The cold season ended, but the fearlessness of the island's inhabitants endured. When the anomaly came, nobody suspected a thing until it was too late.

There was a well about half a mile inland from the inn. When the water tank began to run low, Simms sent his daughter Lena along with Arda to fetch water from the well. On the way, the sight of a half-rotted horse carcass frightened them. It didn't deter the women, and they continued onwards. The corpse should have been seen as a bad omen in and of itself, but bad omens didn't exist for those who had nothing to fear.

He should have heard it, known about its presence long before it happened. The shame, the guilt, haunted him for days after. Maybe it had been because his medallion was gone, but that was only an excuse. He still had his witcher senses. He should have detected it sooner.

Oslan had, since dawn, gone through all of his sword drills. He had done them as a boy, and continued as a man. The masters always stressed the importance of practicing at every opportunity—a blade had to be kept sharp, never dull or rusted. And even though he was no longer a witcher, a good sword hand could still serve him well.

Practicing the drills also served another purpose. The movements—the slashes, stabs, and tight footwork—kept both his body and mind busy. Oslan didn't have to think about that day. That day, he'd lost his medallion. And worse, he'd lost _them_. But the drills, they kept his mind away from the wound that was still raw. They also passed the time, shortening the stretch of time before Arda came home.

The drills weren't supposed to be all done consecutively. Back when he had been a student, the masters made them go through only a few per day. But that wasn't enough. He needed to be distracted for just a little longer.

It was just past midday when Oslan stopped. He gasped for air, his lungs burning with every breath. The heat on his skin was unbearable, even with his shirt discarded. The glistening beads of sweat that slowly crept down to the waist of his trousers did little to cool him. He walked back to the house. Oslan could hardly feel his arms, and the broadsword in his hand seemed to have gained a thousand pounds. The sheath leaned against the wall beside the door. Oslan slid his broadsword back in and carried his weapons, along with his shirt, back into the house.

Oslan plopped down onto the chair, lowering the swords onto the ground beside him. He used the shirt to mop his face, neck, and chest before dumping that over the sheaths. With a groan, he stretched an arm across the table and rested his head on his bicep.

He ought to take a bath at least, Oslan figured, before he stunk up the house with the smell of sweat. But he was exhausted, and finally being able to rest like this felt amazing. He could take a short nap, and then wash up. The drills, Oslan reminded himself as he closed his eyes, weren't supposed to be done consecutively after all. He needed a rest.

Maybe that was why he didn't hear it until it was already too close. The amber eyes flew open at the sound, the unmistakable sound. It was a monster. The realization crossed his mind in an instant, and he was on his feet in the next. Then he heard something even more terrifying. Her voice. Her soft, familiar footsteps.

They were much too close together. And that hurried scrabbling—the monster had already detected them. It was running towards its prey.

Oslan grabbed his swords and slung the strap over his shoulder and across his chest, not giving a rat's ass that he was still shirtless as he sprinted out the door. As he ran, he listened to their voices. They spoke calmly to each other, unaware of the danger that was fast approaching them.

The other woman that Arda was with, she must've seen it first. Oslan heard her horrified scream. Rapid footsteps—the two ran in separate directions. The shuffling of the monster told him that it had chosen one of them to pursue, but Oslan could no longer tell which footsteps were hers. Fear forced itself up his throat into a desperate howl. _"Arda!"_

And then in the distance, he saw them. The one being chased by the snarling ghoul was Lena. It was quickly gaining on her. But suddenly a hurled bucket thumped against the ghoul's head. The unintelligent necrophage broke off the chase to look back at its attacker. Its bloodshot gaze fell onto a paralyzed Arda. It gave an awful yowl and charged at her. Oslan could hear the terrified whimper she gave before she broke into a run.

It was too fast, and Oslan was too far. He ran, but he knew that the ghoul would reach her before he could get close enough to engage. His terror pushed his heart into a racing frenzy.

Then, before the ghoul could pounce on her, Arda quickly veered to her left. The monster shrieked as the woman quickly strafed out of its way. But even if it was just a little too slow in changing direction, it managed to lash out with a clawed hand.

Oslan heard cloth and flesh being torn. Arda screamed and clutched her arm. She stumbled and fell onto her knees. The pain in Oslan's legs disappeared when he saw her look back at the advancing ghoul and cover her face. He was almost there, _almost there!_

The ghoul lunged with both claws and teeth.

It hit a Quen shield and ricocheted back.

In the time it took for the ghoul to recover, he was already on top of it. Oslan kicked it, letting the metal-studded toe of his boot dig deep into the monster's soft throat. The strike prevented it from making any sound as it hit the ground. It was upright in a flash. Oslan had already backed away, putting ample distance between them. The silver blade was poised in his hand, one hand squeezing the black leather grip and the other resting lightly against the bear head pommel.

The ghoul was predictable. Oslan saw the sinewy lines in its hind legs tense and quickly moved to dodge. The necrophage lunged, but met only air as the witcher preemptively evaded its strike. Oslan lashed out with a quick, fluid motion and scored a deep slash across the side of the ghoul's ribs. Droplets of deep purple blood flicked through the air where the blade came free. The ghoul gave a thick, raspy growl and quickly changed direction to sink its dark yellow fangs into the witcher's thigh. Oslan twisted his leg away from the necrophage's teeth, turning to the side. As the ghoul lunged out in front of him, he kicked out, cracking into the monster's jaw with his shin. As it recoiled, Oslan hit it with the force of Aard. The ghoul flew back and slammed into a tree. The branches rattled, and then again when a silver blade plunged deep into the trunk.

Pinned to the tree by the sword that had speared it through the mouth, the ghoul could only clack its orange teeth against the silver. When it finally fell limp, Oslan yanked the blade out. The ghoul's body curled forward until its head hit the ground with a dull thud.

Instinctively, the frenzied witcher looked around, straining his senses for any sign of other monsters. But there were no other. Instead, all he heard was a quiet weeping. The monster hunter in him disappeared as Oslan whirled around. He wiped the blade against his thigh and returned it to his back. He hurried over to Arda and fell to the ground beside her, cradling her against him. She held her arm, the sleeve torn and soaked in red.

Oslan tried to comfort her with soft hushes and gentle kisses, but she wouldn't stop crying. Monster-inflicted wounds hurt more than anything else, he reminded himself. Especially to those who had never felt them before.

"Let me see it, Arda. Shhh, it's okay. Let me see it," Oslan coaxed gently. He gingerly pulled her hand away and lifted the torn, soaked sleeve. It was a long scratch that ran from mid-arm and ended in the crook of her elbow. It wasn't deep, and the bleeding wasn't too bad. Still, the scratch worried him. Bite wounds from necrophages almost always caused blood poisoning, but Oslan wasn't sure about claw wounds. Defying his thoughts, he pressed his lips against Arda's temple and murmured, "You're going to be just fine." He bundled her against his chest and lifted her up.

"She saved me," Lena said breathlessly, shooting a terrified glance at the slumped ghoul. "I don't know what I'd do if that thing got her."

 _Neither would I_ , Oslan thought. The thought of imagining a scenario where he had been too late made his blood run cold. He wouldn't be able to handle it, knowing that he could have saved her. "Go back to the inn," he told Lena. "Let them know what happened. Tell them to shut the doors. This was the only one around here as far as I can tell, but we can't be too careful. I need to take Arda home."

"We have some medicine," Lena offered, "at our house. I could bring it to you."

"Any disinfectants?" Lena nodded. "Please."

Oslan hurried back with Arda in his arms, careful not to bump her and cause her further discomfort. Her crying died down, but she was still sniffling as she buried her face against his shoulder. As he felt the softness of her cheek press against his skin, he was suddenly reminded that he was without a shirt. "I don't smell very good," he joked to her. She apparently didn't agree as she continued to huddle into him.

They reached the house. Arda protested when Oslan lowered her gently onto the bed. "I'm dirty."

"Doesn't matter," Oslan told her. "This is my side, anyway."

Arda stubbornly shook her head. "I'm goin' te 'ave te wash the sheets," she insisted. Oslan had his own cleaning to do. He needed to get rid of the ghoul corpse as well as the horse cadaver that had probably attracted it in the first place.

Lena came over with Simms and the supplies—clean water, bandages, and a jar of thyme and rosemary soaked in guava oil. They let Oslan tend to the wound. Simms told Arda that he didn't want her back at the inn until the wound was completely healed. Arda began to argue back, but was silenced when Simms asked her how she was going to carry a tray full of tankards with an arm she could barely move. "Thank Freya a thousand times that horrible thing didn't hurt you or my Lena any more than it did," he said. "But now the recovery is up to you, so you better sit still and get plenty of rest." Finally, when the scratch was cleaned and tightly bandaged, Simms and Lena left to return to the inn.

Oslan stooped down from the chair to wash his hands in the bowl of water at his feet. Arda examined her bandages. "I smell like a Yule roast," she remarked.

"All the better for the monsters to gobble you up," Oslan teased as he dried his hands on a towel. He scooted his chair closer to the bed and wrapped an arm around Arda. She leaned into him. "Are you feeling okay?"

"It hurt," she replied quietly. "It burned worse than any 'ot surface I've ever touched. I thought it'd poisoned me."

"Necrophages—those things—don't have venom," Oslan told her. "But since they eat rotten flesh, their mouths are filled with bacteria. Their bites cause blood poisoning. I don't know about their claws." He looked her in the eyes. "If you feel anything, _anything at all_ , you let me know, okay?"

"Is it… Is it goin' te…?" Arda placed her hand over Oslan's chest, her fingertips touching a chalky white scar that ran diagonally down his chest.

Oslan gave a little nod. "Monster wounds always become scars. They never heal completely." He squeezed her shoulder. "Don't worry." Raising his arm to show her the water hag scar, he told her, "Now we'll match." A small smile crept on her face. It was all he needed. Oslan raised his chin and let Arda nestle her head against his neck.

"This is my fault," he suddenly said, voicing the guilt inside of him. "I could have stopped this."

"Ye did."

"I've been trained to fight monsters since I was a little boy." Up until now, he'd never talked about his upbringing to Arda. She'd never asked. But now it just all came tumbling out. "How to fight them. How to hunt them. How to detect them. I should've seen it coming before it even caught scent of you. I shouldn't have let it touch you."

"Ye can't take responsibility for ev'ry lil'thing that 'appens," Arda told him gently. "It's not yer fault. Yer jus' a man."

"I'm a witcher." The words practically left a bitter taste in his mouth. "I've been trying to deny that all this time. I can't. I can't deny what my eyes look like. I can't deny how I can hear the heartbeat of a gull as it flies over my head. I'm a witcher. It's all I'm good for."

"Is bein' a witcher a bad thing?" Her voice was quiet.

Oslan tilted his head down and pressed his cheek against her hair. "People don't treat me the way you do," he said.

"They treat ye li' Ma did, don't they?"

Oslan nodded, feeling her soft hair rub against his face. "And when I was bleeding on the shore. Do you remember? You brought men out to help me, but they said I was dead. They didn't even stand close enough, check for breathing or a pulse. Otherwise they'd have known I wasn't. If you weren't there, they would have left me to die on that shore. And they'd leave me there until the tide became high enough to pull my body out to sea."

"No 'un wuld'a mourned ye. No 'un'd bury ye," Arda realized.

"My brothers wouldn't even know I was dead until the next winter."

"That's awful."

"That's what being a witcher is like," Oslan stated.

Arda raised her unscathed arm and wrapped it around him, pulling him tighter against him. "I love ye," she told him, "whatever ye are. Whatever ye think ye are. Be it a witcher, or just a man. It don't matter te me."

"I know."

* * *

Oslan stayed for the next few weeks to make sure Arda recovered. Thankfully, she didn't show any sign of blood poisoning. He cleaned and redressed her wound every day. They joked that it was like it had been in the barn, but reversed.

All the while, Oslan kept his guard up for any other monsters. Every little noise had him on edge. His panicked mind had difficulty discerning the pawing of a mouse from the light steps of a monster. And it was hard to rely on his gut feeling when he was constantly in a state of restlessness.

Wrought with anxiety, Oslan reverted to a habit he hadn't done in a long time—he clutched at his neck for the medallion that was no longer there. With his hand still at the base of his neck, Oslan realized what had to be done. He needed it back.

Arda didn't seem to have a problem with what he told her, though he could see the faintest trace of sadness in her eyes. He made sure she would stay with Simms's family while he was gone. The scratch on her arm no longer needed bandaging. It had healed into a thin, red line, though over the course of the next few days it would slowly turn white.

His boat sat anchored to the shallow water. He kissed her on the shore. Then, as the boat moved towards open water, he looked back. Arda waved.

When he could no longer see her and the shore became nothing but a thin line on the horizon, Oslan leaned back against the side of the boat and directed the till. It'd been a long time since he had gone out onto open waters, and even longer since he had directed his boat towards that island. But muscle memory and instinct pushed the till, pointing the boat towards the way it needed to go.

As the bow cut through the water, Oslan began to ponder what he was going to do once he reached the guild. Kozin took his medallion, and it was likely he still had it. Oslan would have to confront him to get it back.

But perhaps there was a chance to mend things. He wanted his friends back. Thinking about their anger towards him gnawed at his insides. Maybe this was a chance to make things right with them again.

That was just the idealist, the optimist, within him talking. Kozin wasn't likely to forgive him. To the black-haired witcher, Oslan was a traitor. "He'll get over it," Undevar had said, but how well did the grandmaster really know him?

It was soon time to find out. Without even looking, Oslan knew that the island was close. He stood up and stepped out from under the sail to gaze at the horizon. As he did, a cold, prickling feeling washed over him.

There was nothing there. No island. He stared, but the ocean remained empty. Oslan quickly turned to the mast, grabbing the ropes to slack them and luff the sail. The canvas flapped limply in the wind, and the boat slowed. Oslan looked back towards the bow. How could the horizon be empty? He was positive, _absolutely_ _certain_ , that the School of Bear was here!

Then something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked. It was the island. The School. But it was about 80 degrees to the east of where his boat was pointed. It was, to his eyes, unmistakably the island that he had grown up on. But as he stared at it, he felt a feeling at the pit of his gut. It was the uneasy stirring that rose when hearing something rustling nearby in the night. Something was not right.

Still, Oslan had no other choice. He pulled the ropes and tied them down. The sail tightened and caught the wind. Oslan returned to the till and steered the boat towards the island. He locked the till and went to the bow to watch the island as it drew closer. Maybe his memory of the guild's location wasn't as sharp as he'd assumed. After all, it had been over a year.

Then, as he watched the island, it began to shift. Its contours changed. It was no longer the island that the School was on. In fact, Oslan realized as his boat sailed closer, it was Faroe. That meant that the School was somewhere behind him. But he could have sworn…

Oslan hurried back to the till and turned it as far as it would go. The boat came around in a wide circle and headed away from Faroe. He spotted the island ahead of him. It was in the general area it should be in, but Oslan was no longer sure. This time, as he drew near, the island disappeared like a mirage. He was sailing towards nothing but open ocean. Oslan looked back. He saw the island again, but knew he couldn't trust it.

Again, he let the sail luff. He sat down and held his head in his hands until the boat came to a complete stop. What was happening? In the past, he never had any trouble locating the island. This was surely an enchantment. He would ask Theila about it, but the sorceress had recently returned to the Continent.

Did they do this to keep him away? Oslan remembered Undevar had told him that he was welcomed to return. So why were they hiding the island from him now? It hurt, thinking of how they had cast him away like this. Oslan heard his voice, seething and angry.

 _"You want to be normal so badly? Fine."_

There was nothing here for him now. Oslan turned the boat around and headed back to An Skellig—his only home now.

* * *

 _You, me_

 _Everything we could be_

 _All the good we don't see_

 _Is worth the scars we have_

"Give Up Now"—NineOneone, Tony Stafford & Michael Smith


	24. Chapter 24 - Brothers in Battle

_**12/30 - The cover has Undevar, everyone's favorite grandmaster of the Bear. Look at that majesty. LOOK AT IT.**_

* * *

When Oslan came back with no medallion around his neck, Arda didn't know what to say. She tried her best to be there for him and make up for the family he'd lost. Despite her efforts, Oslan began to grow restless. In the mornings, his side would already be empty by the time Arda opened her eyes. At night, she would always go to bed before he came home. It wasn't unusual that she'd be asleep before he returned.

He was patrolling the island, day after day. Looking out for monsters, driven by guilt. Nothing Arda did or said ever seemed to lessen his burden. For two months, it was like this. Arda began feeling like she was living with a ghost, someone whose presence was always there but she never saw him. Sometimes she'd still be awake when he returned. She would roll into him and he'd put his arms around her. But for the longest time, he would never touch her more than that. Arda missed her husband.

Then, one day, he returned. Just as her Oslan had vanished when a monster appeared, another one reared up and brought him back. On that day, Arda learned that monsters came in all forms.

Clan an Airidh, the reigning clan of An Skellig, lost its power with the passing of Asgeir an Airidh. Asgeir's only two sons were dead—one perished in a storm at sea, and the other in battle. Severely weakened, Clan an Airidh was quickly overrun and replaced by Clan na Feachd. Eivend na Feachd soon became the most powerful man in An Skellig. His first order of operation was to expand his authoritative influence over the islanders. Urialla's Harbor became thick with his guards and infantrymen. The inn and its hamlet soon too felt the pressure of na Feachd's iron grasp.

Guardsmen presence at the inn became an everyday occurrence. Many were brash men with heads too big for their shoulders. They were assertive and demanding, leering at the inn regulars and harassing the serving girls. There was a pair that was especially keen on Arda. They seemed to take the ring on her finger as a challenge and didn't bother to hide the hungry stares fixated on her body. She avoided them as best she could, but that didn't stop them from yelling lecherous things to her.

"Come on, y'curvy wench," the one with the dark beige hair and patchy beard sneered. He was the worst out of the two. Arda made the mistake of looking over. He was rubbing his inner thigh, and there was a hideous mound in his lap. "Hustle o'er here and sit on me lap. I'll give ye the poundin' yer husband's never managed!" To Simms, he barked out, "Oi, man, how much I gotta pay for this one!" He and his companion erupted into raucous laughter.

Simms turned a brilliant red, the outline of a vein emerging on his forehead. The innkeeper could do nothing but hold his tongue, knowing a nasty fate was in store for him or his workers if he tried to retaliate. He couldn't stop them from coming in or make them leave.

They sat right in the hub of all the activity, making it impossible for Arda to avoid them. Each time she had to pass by them, no matter how quickly she tried to move, they never missed a chance to steal a quick feel on her or snag her skirt. Those two frightened her to no end. She would come home more exhausted than ever and wake each morning with dread twisting in her heart.

Though he was hardly around, Oslan seemed to notice. He came home early one evening. His shoulder and arms were draped with snowy gray pelts, and his other hand held a pouch of something that rattled. His armor was speckled with the splatters and drips of dried blood.

Arda regarded him. "Monster?"

"Pack of wolves attacked me near the Bay of Winds," Oslan answered as he dumped the pelts onto a nearby chair. Arda considered asking why he had come back so soon, but stayed silent as she looked back at the boiling pot. "The island's crawling with na Feachd's men. Seems they're not very fond of witchers."

"I 'ope they're not givin' ye too much trouble," Arda said, glancing over her shoulder. Oslan had set his swords down and was pouring some of the pouch's contents into his palm. Small, curved fangs fell out and onto his hand.

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before," Oslan replied, inspecting the teeth before returning them into the pouch. "What about the inn? Is it the last good place on earth?"

"I wish," Arda retorted. She regretted her words as Oslan looked at her. His eyes, those yellow slit eyes, were hardened. He looked almost like the witcher she'd seen on Spikeroog long ago.

"And are they giving _you_ trouble?"

"It's faine," Arda replied quickly. "Nothing too bad." Oslan's austere gaze lingered for another moment, and then the coldness dropped.

"If they are, you let me know." He came to her side and wrapped an arm around her waist. Arda leaned into him. She always felt safe like this. When he was this close, he felt like a wall that protected her from all the bad things in the world. There were always too many bad things in the world.

* * *

They were there the next day. They were always there. Arda did her best to steer clear of them, and apparently they didn't like that very much.

She had delivered to a table of regulars their meals and was chatting with them. Suddenly, she felt the thud of heavy footsteps right behind her. A pair of harsh hands grabbed either side of her waist. Arda tried to turn, but the hands held her still.

She felt hot breath on the back of her neck as he hissed, "Why are ye avoidin' us, wench? Come sit with us, keep us company with this curvy arse a'yours." Arda's fingers turned white as they squeezed the tray. Goosebumps crawled across her skin. The hands tightened on her waist and suddenly pulled her back, pinning her to him. Arda felt it, grotesque and awful, pressing against her buttocks. She swallowed, struggling for breath.

"Let the lass be!" one of the men at the table snapped.

"Ye want to say that again?" the patchy-bearded guard snarled. The brief distraction caused his hands to loosen. Arda quickly broke away from him and hurried over to Simms, panting from terror.

Simms held an arm out to her and protectively wrapped it around her shoulders as she came around the counter. "Go to the kitchen. Stay there," he told her. "From now on, you'll work back there until those whoresons piss off." Arda nodded, her eyes filled with gratitude, and rushed to the back.

The kitchen provided her with a much-needed refuge. As Arda worked alongside the cooks, she couldn't help but worry over the serving girls who were still out there. Even though those animals had targeted her, none of them were being treated much better.

"Ale's running low out in the front," the head cook snapped, whapping a young cook on the shoulder. "na Feachd's boys inhale the stuff like fish. Bring up another barrel from the cellar. We're fixin' to run out of sturgeon, ya cunts! Did the fishermen deliver the next haul yet?"

"I'll go check," Arda volunteered, setting the peeler down. The cooks next to her were peeling their carrots so quickly, it was a wonder they still had skin on their hands. She stepped away from the flying shavings and went out the back of the inn.

Behind the inn was a mess of crates and tangled nets where supplies were dropped off. Arda weaved through opened boxes of discarded carrot greens, lemon peels, and spilled spices. The fishermen weren't very consistent on where they left their daily catch. Usually, it was somewhere around this maze of boxes. Arda ought to tell Simms to have this place cleared up one of these days.

She spied a bit of wet netting poking out from behind a corner of the maze. It was the day's haul, with some of the sturgeon still flapping weakly underneath the sagging nets. Arda took handfuls of the damp ropes and started dragging the heavy load. Suddenly she heard footsteps coming up from behind her. Thinking it was one of the cooks coming to help her, Arda turned.

It was him. He'd followed her to the back where nobody was around. The sight of his eyes, full of malice and lust, made Arda's blood run cold. Before she could do anything, the sharp crack of his backhand against her cheek threw her onto the ground. He grabbed her loosened bun and yanked her head up from the ground by it. Arda felt the cold touch of a dagger's edge on her throat. Her pulse beat wildly against the metal.

"You make a sound and I'll bleed you out, y'hear?" He dragged her to a nearby crate and slammed her facedown onto it. With the dagger still pressed to her neck, he released her hair and yanked her skirt up.

Fear shut her mind down. Arda slumped against the crate like a corpse, unable to move while he shoved his hand between her legs, feeling her through the hose. "Tol'ya I was gonna give you a good poundin' didn't I, wench?" He grabbed the hose and yanked. Arda felt the stockings stretch and tear. Her hair stuck to her wet face and her cheek throbbed where he'd hit her. He shifted on top of her, crushing her under his weight. Arda heard the jingling of his unfastened belt as he tugged the waist of his trousers down.

Then, unexpectedly, Arda could breath again. The squeezing pressure of his body was gone, and so was the icy touch of the dagger. Arda sagged to the ground, her arms still draped over the crate.

"What the shite do—?" the guard screeched, but his voice cut off with a slam and the rattling of crates. Arda managed to turn her head just enough to see what was going on.

He had the guard pinned to a wall of crates, his hand bunching the man's collar so tight it was cutting into his neck. The guard tried to stab Oslan with the dagger, but the witcher caught him by the wrist and smashed his hand against the crates. The knife fell onto the grass, but Oslan wouldn't stop there. He tugged the guard's hand out and bent it back forcefully until his knuckles touched his arm. The repulsive crack was so loud it made Arda flinch, and the subsequent scream was awful.

Oslan punched the crate beside the man's head, his fist flying through the wood. His hand came back out, clutching a fistful of jagged splinters. The guard's scream was stifled when Oslan roughly crammed the wood shards into his mouth. Then the witcher pounded his knuckles into the guard's face. The blow snapped the man's head to the side. A large splinter jutted out of his cheek.

Oslan wouldn't stop. Again and again, he battered the guard's face. Arda saw the wrath teeming from his face, his amber eyes. Oslan wanted to kill him, and he wasn't going to be clean about it.

She pushed herself onto her feeble legs and tried to pull Oslan away. He wouldn't relent. His strikes were sounding more and more spongy. "Stop!" she pleaded. "Oslan, stop it!" She forced herself between them and clung to his chest. Oslan finally abided, snapped out of his rage. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her away from the bloodied guard, who shrank to the ground with an inhuman gurgle.

"Did he hurt you? _Did he hurt you?"_ Oslan roared. His voice scared her.

Arda shook her head. "N-no!" she stammered, her entire body shaking violently. She buried her face into his chest, not daring to look back at the guard's ruined face. Arda hoped he wasn't dead—not for that monster's sake, but for Oslan's. She knew they'd bear down harshly on him if he killed the guard.

There was a clamor as people, alerted by the ruckus, rushed out to investigate. They saw the man on the ground and Oslan, holding onto her with one hand covered in blood. The guards swarmed in around him and pulled him away from her, forcing his hands behind his back.

"Wh-what are ye doin'?" Arda cried.

"Go back inside," one of the guards ordered sternly. Arda saw them wounding thick rope around Oslan's wrists. The cold injustice dissolved her fear. It pissed her off. She didn't know what suddenly came over her, but suddenly she stepped towards the guard, her face twisted with fury.

"This man—my _'usband_ —saved me life after this _bastard_ ," she shouted, throwing her finger to the beaten guard, "tried te force 'is filthy, damned self on me! What kind o'guards are ye, arrestin' the wrong man?"

"Shut your mouth and keep quiet," one of the men snapped. "Unless you want to be brought in too."

"Ye seem te be real keen on jailin' every'un _except_ fer the criminals," Arda shot back. The guard scowled and took a step towards her. She held her ground.

"Arda, it's okay. I'll be fine," Oslan spoke up. His eyes were soft, pleading with her. Arda stayed silent.

Satisfied with her submission, the guard waved a few men in and gestured towards the beaten man. "Carry him back. Freya help me—I can hardly tell that's a face anymore." Directing his glare back to Arda, he continued, "Take this degenerate to the stallari. I'll wager you won't be seeing him again. Don't worry—maybe the stallari will let you keep his head."

She couldn't do anything while they marched him away. Her hands were clenched at her sides. Her vision began to grow fuzzy and she wobbled. Emi quickly hurried to her side and held onto her.

"What's goin' te 'appen te 'im?" Arda whispered tearfully.

"It'll be okay," Emi assured her, though there was no shred of confidence in her voice.

"Arda, lass, what about you?" Simms fretted as he hobbled over to the women. He clasped his hands over her shoulders. "Gods damn me—I was a fool! To think, if it weren't for that boy, you…" He shook his head as if trying to shake away the dark thought. "I've got to let all the workers know. From now on, no one is to come back here without a second pair of eyes. Come on, Emi. Let's take her back in."

* * *

Now was a time when being a witcher became a severe disadvantage. Prejudice ran high among the men that corralled him in and brought him to Urialla's Harbor to stand before Stallari Orjan, the highest warrior under Eivend na Feachd and commander of the clan's infantrymen. Oslan came quietly. He wouldn't fight back against the law, no matter how twisted it was, for her sake.

The stallari questioned the men on the witcher's crimes. "Beat one of our men to near death," was their answer. Orjan asked them, and not Oslan, why. "Out of bloodlust, I'm sure. You know how these witchers are."

Orjan didn't reply as he laid his stony gaze on the captive. The witcher's golden eyes stared back. "How is the man now? Did he survive?"

"His face is going to have to be completely stitched back together," one guard replied. "Don't think he'll come out looking the same."

Orjan nodded. "This assault shall be seen as an act of rebellion against the na Feachd rule. The chieftain does not tolerate such dissent. Punishment is death."

Fear jolted through Oslan's chest—not for him, but for her. If he let them execute him, who would protect her? "You won't kill me," he growled quietly.

"We'll see, witcher," Orjan replied. He jerked his head. "Lock him up. He's to be taken to the block at dawn." As Oslan felt the men begin to pull him by his arms, his mind began to race. Dozens of plans, formulas for escape, ran through his head. Getting away was the easy part—protecting those he cared about was the biggest obstacle. He was already lucky that they weren't being persecuted just for simply being associated with him.

Suddenly, a low voice uttered, "Orjan an Daraín. Thought I recognized the name."

The men stopped, and the stallari tensed. "Who goes there?" he hissed. He whirled around and confronted a large witcher with coal hair. A pipe of similar color was dangling from the corner of his mouth, leaking bitter smoke. A scowl crossed the stallari's face. "Men—!"

"Two years ago," the witcher interrupted loudly, "a spriggen snatched your son from his cradle and made off into the night with him. You never would have seen the babe again, had it not been for a witcher who came across the fleeing monster. Do you deny this?"

Stallari Orjan remained in rigid silence for a few heartbeats. Then, he replied, "I do not deny."

"You told the witcher you had fallen on hard times. Wolves claimed your horses and illness held your wife in bed. Do you remember what the witcher told you?"

"He told me he would not ask for payment that day."

"And thus, since then, you've owed him. Well, he's come to collect his payment now."

"Now is hardly the time," the stallari said.

"On the contrary, now is the perfect time." The witcher motioned a hand towards Oslan. "My demand is that you release him and absolve him of his charges."

Stallari Orjan seemed to swell as the look of angered disbelief crossed over him. "I cannot just…" He trailed off as the witcher did nothing but regard him with a solemn stare. Orjan rested a hand over the hilt of the blade at his side. "Release him," he ordered to the men. They hesitated, which caused the stallari to bark, "Are your ears packed with sand, you fools? I said release him!" One of the guards produced a knife and cut Oslan's ropes. With a sharp wave of his hand, Orjan said, "There, my debt is repaid! Now get out of my sight—the both of you!"

They walked along the shore in complete silence. Their gazes were kept forward as they crunched over the sand and gravel. The awkwardness was so heavy in the air, Oslan was sure he could take one of his swords and cut a gash through it.

Then, Kozin stopped. His stare was strictly focused on the water. Oslan looked at him. It was clear the black-haired witcher had something to say, but was struggling to break the silence

"Ko—."

"Came here to tell you," Kozin cut in, "that I'm heading over to the Continent this season."

"Thanks for helping me back there."

Kozin looked down at the gravel in front of him. "Yeah." He emptied the pipe onto the ground. Instead of refilling it, he only fidgeted with it in his hand.

"What are you going to the Continent for?"

"Change of scenery." Kozin rotated the pipe in his palm one last time before returning it to his belt. Once again, silence settled heavily over them. Oslan hooked his thumbs over his belt. He knew now was the time to say it.

"You were right, Ko. I can't run away from what I am. Shouldn't even have tried." Kozin didn't respond as he looked back out towards the ocean. "I didn't mean to turn my back on you. I get why you're mad. I just… I'm sorry."

The black-haired witcher replied with a heavy sigh. "Fuck," he grunted. "Os, you're my brother. Been trying to convince myself otherwise but it just never fucking worked." He turned. Oslan saw that his eyes were clouded with conflicting feelings. "Hell, I'd be lying if I said I never thought about doing what you did. Being a witcher really sucks sometimes—that's the truth. Guess I can't blame you then. But you need to remember that the world needs us. I'm not asking you to leave her, Os. And after all you've done, you'd be a real asshole if you did that." He shrugged. "Just don't forget that we exist too."

"Never did," Oslan said. "I tried to come back to the guild to get my medallion back and to talk with you and Addie. Couldn't find it anymore." Admitting it was a little embarrassing.

Kozin held something out. It was the Bear medallion. The silver chain it was attached to was seamless as though it had never been broken. "Didn't understand at first why the grandmaster was so furious that I took it," he said. "Then he told me. Thought it was the boats that let us see the island, but apparently it's these. Undevar told me by removing it, I did more than just take your medallion."

Oslan took it, watching the sunlight reflect off of the medallion's many facets. "I suppose it's time I return to the Path," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. Underneath the Bear head, he saw the ring on his finger.

"The Path can wait," Kozin said. "What little time you two have, you should spend with her." Oslan felt his stomach clench at his words, but he knew it was the truth. "Don't need you stealing my contracts anyhow."

Olsan laughed in a breathy exhale. "If you're going to the Continent, you should be worry about the witchers from the other schools," he remarked. "Is Addie going too?"

"Nay. He said the people over there are too frail and the monsters probably are too."

"Where's he now?"

Kozin jerked his head behind him. He began walking back towards the hamlet, and Oslan followed. "Came here to find the little place in a right state of panic. We figured it had to do with you. They told us what happened. I came up to find you, and Addie stayed behind to calm everyone down… and to hold your wife back. She was going to march on after you and, I'll bet, get right up into the face of the stallari herself."

After all that had happened to her… As if he didn't have reason enough to love her. "About that story—you saving the stallari's son from the spriggen…"

"That?" Kozin replied with a light scoff. "That wasn't even me. I just remember hearing one of the witchers tell that story last winter. Realized it was the same man. Hope he doesn't plan on coming around to collect his debt any time soon."

"I need to treat that witcher to a round," Oslan said. "He saved my life."

"You're welcome, asshole." Kozin paused. "Does this mean you're coming back to the keep next winter?"

"Aye."

"With her?"

"Does that bother you?"

Kozin grunted. "I don't have a problem with her. Not anymore. But I swear to Freya and all the ploughin' sea gods that if I'm trying to sleep and I hear you two—."

"Shut up, Ko. Don't be jealous."

"I might just finish what the stallari started."

As they neared the inn, they could hear Andryk's irritated voice coming from within the walls. "What kind of _breed?_ Curse! It was a curse! What kind of piss-shitin' breedin'd make a dog look like that? … _No_ , I didn't curse her! Do I look like the cursin' type te ye?"

"You'd think Addie would already be used to those kinds of questions," Oslan mused.

"He's more sensitive about that dog than a sorceress is of her hair," Kozin replied. "She's dead ugly, but she's fierce as hell. On the way here, a drowner latched onto our boat. Before we could do anything, that mutt damn near tore its head off. The only thing left connecting was a bit of tendon."

When they reached the inn, Kozin opened the door and they walked in. Everyone was huddled by the fire, each sharing the same look of grimness. By contrast, Aegis was wagging her tail off as she licked a plate on the ground clean. Andryk was standing with his back to the door, arms crossed. All heads turned when the door opened. One woman was on her feet before anyone could react. She crashed into Oslan's chest and threw her arms around him. Oslan caught her in his embrace, winding his fingers into her messy hair.

Arda's eyes were red. She must've been crying since he'd been dragged away. "It's okay, leannan, he told her. "I'm here."

" _Leannan?_ " he heard Andryk drawl to Kozin. "How cute. Stinkin' sap."

Kozin ignored his remark. "How were things here?" he asked. "Did any of na Feachd's men come back?"

"Nay, been quiet here, which don't sit right with me. This lass has been bawling the entire time, thinkin' they were goin' te make a widow out o'her." The red-haired witcher looked around at the tired faces around them. "Been talkin' with the innfolk. They've told me o'the things that's happened te them up till this moment. Abuse, all o'it." Andryk's cheek twitched as he scowled. "Real piece o'shite, this Eivend. His rule's all fucked up, it is. His men are nothing but bullies and rapists. And not te mention they're especially nasty te the likes o'us."

"Really like to give Eivend na Feachd a piece of my mind," Kozin muttered.

"Witchers stay neutral," Oslan quietly reminded the two of them. They look towards him as though they had forgotten he was there. He looked down at Arda and softly told her, "Go sit by the fire. Warm up. I'll be right outside if you need me." Arda returned to the benches by the hearth, and the rest of the girls huddled comfortingly around her. Oslan gestured towards the door and the three of them stepped out.

"Damn it, Os, I know witchers stay neutral," Andryk said as soon as they exited the inn. "I'm not about te march up te Eivend and lop his head off, as much as me fingers are itchin' te do it. But we can't just stand around and let this sort o'bullshite happen."

"I've witnessed some of that 'bullshite' firsthand," Oslan reminded him. "I know what I have to do. The Path isn't just about killing monsters—it's about helping people where we can. These people need help."

"Damn, Os, you sound like a fucking textbook," Kozin goaded. Andryk snorted.

"And what are ye plannin' te do?"

"I'm not going to kill Eivend. But that doesn't mean I'll plan on trying to stop anyone who tries to kill him. You know how Skellige is—clans are always trying to get at each other's throats. And even if I can't touch that horsefucker, his knuckle-dragging men won't be sharing that same immunity if they try anything like this again. This time, I don't care about playing by his rules—I'll cut down his entire hird if I have to. That ought to pull Eivend's head back and expose his throat." Brief flickers of surprise appeared in his brothers' eyes. Oslan was a little shocked by the brutality of his words himself, but he meant them. One of na Feachd's men _did_ try to rape his wife.

Andryk crossed his arms. "Yer talkin' big words," he said. "But yer goin' te be needin' two swords te back 'em up."

"Meaning?"

"Ye know me, Os. If there's anythin' terrorizin' the lasses, ye can be damn sure I'm goin' te show up and kick its arse." He jerked his head towards Kozin. "Meanwhile this bastard's headin' over te the Continent. Ye bring me back some o'their spirits, aye? Let's see if their brewin's decent."

Kozin sighed. "I planned to travel lightly, but I'll see what I can do." He looked down and reached to the back of his belt. When he pulled his hand back, Oslan could see he had something clutched in his fist. A chain dangled from his hand. The differing links of silver and black told him the chain had obviously been mended. "I have something for you," Kozin said. He opened his palm as he offered it to Oslan.

It was a round medallion also made of black metal. Meteorite, Oslan recognized. Etched into the surface of the medallion were the words: _Bhràithrean anns a 'Bhlàr_.

"Brothers in battle," Oslan read aloud. He lifted the chain with his other hand, examining the links as they slid between his fingers. "This…"

"It was the one I broke," Kozin said, "when I took your medallion." He looked down when he admitted. "Couldn't find anything else in the smithy except meteorite, and couldn't make the links as small as the silver ones. Looked awkward as hell by the time I was done fixing it."

"Then who made this?" Oslan asked, giving his Bear medallion chain a tug.

"The grandmaster."

"Figures." Oslan looked down at the medallion, running his thumb over the writing. He smirked. "Brothers in battle. _Brothers._ " He suddenly dropped the pendant onto a flat piece of rock between the grass.

The two ogled as Oslan drew his sword. "What the fuck—?" The rock rang out as the point of the sword struck it. When Oslan pulled his blade up, the medallion had a slash halfway across its diameter. He stabbed down again, breaking off a third of the pendant. Then, he broke the bigger piece in half, leaving the medallion shattered into three pieces. Oslan stooped down to gather the thirds and tossed two of them to the others. The last piece, the part with the mended chain, remained in his hand.

"Three parts of a whole," Oslan said as he looped his piece over his head.

Kozin's hand tightened around his piece. Then, he put it in a pouch. "Took me all morning to make that," he said, though there was a grin on his face. "You fucking suck."

"Good hunting in the Continent, Ko. Come back to us."

Before Kozin could respond, Andryk threw an arm around Oslan and yanked him close. "There's no need te worry about this pisshead. No soft-hided Continent monster's goin' te get the best o'our Ko," he said. "Now we ought'a let the bastard go on his way, and _we_ best be gettin' back te the inn. There was a lass back there gettin' real sweet with me, and I don't mind the look o'her." He thunked Oslan on the shoulder. "Be a mate and give us a proper introduction, will ye?"

Oslan grimaced, knowing that some of the girls in the inn grew weak at the knees at the sight of bulky arms and big weapons. He just needed to warn Andryk about Simms first.

* * *

 _Face down in the desert, now there's a cage locked around my heart_

 _I found a way to drop the keys where my failures were_

 _Now my hands can't reach that far_

 _I ain't made for rivalry; I could never take the world alone_

 _I know that in my weakness I am strong, but_

 _It's your love that brings me home_

"Brother"—Needtobreathe

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Can't believe it's taken me this long to mention it, but here's some news that may just rock your world. Our boy Kozin is featured in another story called The Last Manticore by mikitta. You can find out what he's been up to during the events of Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt. It's here on this site.**_

 _ **It's a very good story, so be sure to read it in its entirety, not just for the Kozin parts. Seriously, there are parts in the plot that will blow your mind like a 360-no-scope headshot. Plus, in the time it takes for you to read it, there'll probably be another update waiting for you when you come back :)**_

 _ **Yes, this is a plug. No, this was not a requested plug.**_


	25. Chapter 25 - The Pirate Queen

Ilah was fun and kept him entertained for a little while. Plus, she kept his tankard full. And she wasn't the only one—there was no short amount of lasses in that blessed inn that soon took eager interest in this new, _available_ red-haired witcher.

Andryk, of course, lapped up all the female attention like his pup did to the bowl of milk she currently had her face stuffed into. He was careful not to show any enthusiasm and kept a flinty, distant front. This drove the lasses crazy; they edged in closer, pressing for attention, which was right up Andryk's alley. They begged for stories and shyly asked if they could touch the scars on his face and arms. Andryk wasn't the type to tell a pretty face 'no.'

The ones that had tried to court the girls to no avail threw nasty glares at him. Most of the male patrons, however, delighted in his stories—the gruesome hunts, especially. They made drinking games out of his tales using various rules, most commonly each time the witcher called Aegis his 'little lass' or every time he imitated a sword swing.

Simms had no issue with Andryk, seeing how the red-haired witcher lit the inn up brighter than the crackling hearth. But if the innkeeper knew just how many times his rowdy servers had spent their breaks pulling that witcher into empty, secluded rooms, the vein in his forehead would've seen the world a lot more often.

Andryk had the decency to keep his distance from Lena and Arda, but any of the other unwed girls were fair game. And there was certainly no short supply of those. _Why didn't I ever come here sooner?_ Andryk thought to himself as he was pulling his boots back on. The girl had dressed in a flash and ran downstairs to avoid any suspicion, but he knew she'd be back for more soon enough. _This place is outright heaven on earth_. What made it especially so was that most of these girls weren't looking for anything more than a good, quick romp. There were a few that wanted a bit more, Andryk kept his hands far, far away from them. He'd grown adept at noticing the signs, just like he'd learn to catch traces of monsters, and he kept his distance. Emotional investment wasn't his thing. Unlike Oslan, he wasn't exactly a man built for commitment.

Then they came, and they tore his heaven up.

Andryk stopped at the top of the stairs to check his fly one last time. There was no way he was going to make _that_ mistake again. Then he descended the stairs and found himself staring at quite the strange scene.

The inn was practically empty. What few patrons left were quickly hustling out the door or brushing past him to get up to their rooms. Andryk saw Oslan leaning against the wall by the hearth. The blond witchers eyes were closed, and Andryk could hear his deep, even breathing. He recognized a witcher steeling himself for a fight. The effect was contagious. Andryk felt his body grow charged with brewing energy.

He looked to Simms. The innkeeper was still there, but the serving girls were gone. "What's goin' on?" he demanded.

Wiping the washcloth in nervous circles over the already spotless counter, Simms replied, "Folks spotted the ship in the harbor. Reckon they'll be here any second now."

"Who?"

As if to answer the red-haired witcher's query, he heard a cacophony of uneven footsteps approaching the inn. Gruff voices melded together into incoherence, but Andryk didn't like the unified tone shared by all of them. They didn't sound like good news.

"Pirates," Simms muttered, his eyes still glued to the counter. As the sound of them drew closer, Oslan opened his eyes and flexed his fingers as they rested on his crossed arms. Andryk sat down at a bench near the hearth, angled so he could see the door. To his right, he heard Oslan's slow breathing.

The door flew wide open and slammed into the wall. Andryk saw a large, bulky silhouette blocking the sunlight. Then the figure walked in and melted into a man. _Yup_ , Andryk confirmed to himself. _Definitely a pirate_. The gargantuan man had enough gold in his ears and craggily beard to bring a dwarf to tears. His face was crisscrossed with scars like a witcher's, though their pinkish hue indicated that they had been manmade. As he walked in, his companions filed in behind him. They came in all shapes and sizes, but they all looked like pirates—like bad news. And the total weapons they had on their persons were enough to completely restock an armory.

Andryk leaned his elbows on the table and stared forward, keeping his face stony as he pinpointed their locations through his ears. He'd never had a run in with pirates before, but he'd heard plenty about them from the masters and Skelligers. They terrorized the seas, raiding merchant ships and coastlines alike. They weren't just known for their greed, but their brutality too—leaving survivors wasn't their thing. Sometimes clans hired them to help raid coastal settlements on the Continent, but when it came to pirates, trust could only stretch as far the depth of one's pockets. They sailed around like wolf packs under a captain. But wolves weren't greedy and morally corrupt. If there was anything Andryk despised more than Adepts, it was a twisted heart.

"I see the place has already come ready for us," Andryk heard the gargantuan man chuckle. His thumping footsteps came closer. That was the alpha, Andryk determined.

He lifted his eyes a little when they swarmed to the bench he sat at. He let his eyes gloss over them as they sat around and across from him. They returned with gazes that were none too friendly. Andryk kept his chin lifted, his face unchanged. They didn't intimidate him, not in the least. To him, they were nothing but a bunch of callow bandits, and if the worst were to come, he'd polish them off just the same. He heard Oslan's breathing, slow and steady. Simm's heartbeat was positively pounding.

It was a big gang, this lot. They practically filled the whole inn. Soon, all the pirates had settled but one. Andryk heard them come up behind him. A citrusy scent filled his nose. They said nothing, and Andryk heard the quiet beating of their heart. For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then, Andryk saw scowls cross the faces of the ones across from him. A harsh hand clamped over his shoulder. It was the gargantuan man; the one who Andryk assumed was the captain.

The red-haired witcher turned his head slightly towards him. "Ye lads came all this way just te feel me up? Can't say I blame ye."

"You're in the cap's spot. _Move_." Ah, so the real captain was behind him. Andryk turned, eager to confront this 'formidable' man.

Looking back, Andryk found himself face-to-face with the defined contours of a pair of immodestly covered breasts. For a second, as he stared, a corner of his mind lit up with glee. His eyes climbed up the plump lines and found a set of collarbones at the seat of a slender neck.

Suddenly, a firm finger came up under his chin and pulled his gaze up to meet the captain's face. Her eyes were ringed with a thick layer of dark makeup, making her icy blue eyes shimmer from the depths. Her short, dark brown hair curled inwards and hugged her neck. It draped over her forehead and fell just over the ridge of her narrow eyebrows. A thin circlet of gold chain wrapped around her hair. At her forehead, the circlet split into an intricate web of chains set with small, flat onyx stones. At the very center was a gold pendant of a skull gripping a sword in its teeth.

Her white, ruffled blouse yawned generously wide down her chest and fanned wide around her neck in an almost regal manner. A wide hide belt, studded with rivets, clamped just below her bosom, cutting through the billowy clothes to show the curves of her trimmed waist. Andryk couldn't see much below that, given that her finger was still holding his face up.

Then, she twisted her hand around to grip his entire jaw and clamped it shut with a firm push. Andryk didn't realize his mouth had fallen open. The powerful fragrance of lemon and wintergreen covered his face like a dense cloud. Her fingers dug into his skin as she throatily purred, "Does the freak like what he sees?" A few snickers emanated from the others.

She released his face. Andryk could still feel the pressure of her fingertips on his face. The hand on his shoulder squeezed into a vice-like grip. The gargantuan man stood, bringing Andryk up with him. "I said _move!"_ he snarled to the witcher, shoving him away from the bench. Andryk turned, spying the curves in the captain's tight brown trousers shift as she took her seat. He glanced at Oslan. The blond witcher shook his head by moving it a few degrees to the side.

Andryk shot a glare to Oslan that said, ' _You see how these whoresons treated me?'_

Oslan gave a minute shrug that seemed to reply, ' _Doesn't matter; don't start a fight.'_ He flicked his eyes over to Simms to instruct, ' _Go stand by the counter_.

"Oi, innkeep! Where are all the barmaids?" one pirate demanded loudly, thumping his fist on the table. "Give us a couple of lasses for entertainin'!"

"S'just me today," Simms mumbled, still wiping the counter.

The captain grunted. Andryk couldn't help but look over at her. She crossed her long legs, and Andryk caught a glimpse of her fur-wrapped boots. "You boys scared them off," she said. Her voice was gruff, but had that pleasantly honeyed tone that reminded Andryk of a sly she-fox.

"Surely not, cap! We're as braw as lads can get!"

"I was talking to _them_." The pale blue eyes turned to Andryk. They were deriding. "Chased your ladies away with their freakish faces." Andryk glared at her. The corner of her red lips tugged up. She turned back to the table. Raising her hand, she snapped her fingers and said, "Are you planning to polish a hole into that countertop, man? We came here to be served!"

"Of course," Simms muttered back. "Food and drink, is it?"

"Whattaya think? Ye meanin' te feed us hay or sumtin', ye fat lard?" a pirate snapped.

Oslan tensed. Andryk saw his arms unfurl. This time, it was the red-haired witcher's turn to shoot him a restraining look. Oslan returned with a compliant nod, though his face still held a small frown. Simms came round to the tables to collect payment for the meals. Oslan was watching with fierce intensity. The gang of pirates threw their coins apathetically towards him. Even from where he stood, Andryk could tell that their payment was hardly enough.

Simms didn't seem to mind. He hurriedly collected the coins and was about to scamper away when a low voice growled, "That's not enough. Pay up what you owe."

Gnarled, weather-beaten faces turned towards the witcher by the hearth. He was still leaning on the wall, still crossing his arms. The flickering flames in the fireplace seemed to make his burning eyes glow. Andryk felt the shift in the air immediately. The pirates' hands flew to their weapons and they began to rise.

"Sit." Her low voice curtailed their hostility in an instant. Her eyes flitted over to Oslan, and her tone became eerily pleasant. "The witcher is right. Come on, boys. We've plenty of coin to spare, especially after the raids on those Redanian ships."

The pirates produced more money and offered it to Simms in the same manner. This time, Andryk stepped forward to help him gather it all. He felt that icy gaze on him.

"Didn't know witchers were working as barmaids now."

Andryk felt a vein in his temple about to pop. "Didn't know pirates were lettin' whores captain their ships now," he shot back.

The captain didn't seem to be as bothered by his remark, which irritated him even more. Instead, she pressed a finger against her smiling lips. The pirate closest to Andryk jumped up his feet, flaring his shoulders out wide as he confronted the witcher face-to-face. "Ye'll show some respect te Har Maj'sty," he snarled through crooked teeth. Andryk caught a glimpse of a silver tooth in the pirate's smelly mouth.

"Her Majesty?" Andryk repeated.

Instead of answering, the silver-toothed pirate's hand shot up to grab Andryk's collar. The witcher caught him by the wrist, squeezing the soft flesh and flimsy bone. The pirate didn't show any sign of pain—Andryk had to hand that to him.

"Sit down before you lose that arm," the captain demanded in her silken voice. "You'll be no use to me then."

Silver-tooth dropped back into his seat. Andryk caught a brief glimpse of Oslan glaring for his attention. When their eyes met for a split second, Oslan flicked his to his side to signal, _'Come here.'_

Andryk left the table just as the ale and food emerged from the kitchen, carried only by the most sizeable of the kitchen staff. He took his place against the wall next to Oslan, visibly agitated.

"Careful, Addie," Oslan said, his voice barely a whisper. The rowdy guests began clamoring up a storm in the inn, but Andryk could still hear the blond witcher's voice clearly.

"I'll fuckin' gut that bitch and every single one o'her arsehead lackeys," Andryk fumed quietly.

"You'll find yourself up to your neck in deep shit if you try," Oslan replied. "Don't you know who she is?"

"A stupid tit-flaunting bitch whore?"

"Ronja the Pirate Queen," Oslan said. "The men you see in here are just a fraction of those who sail under her flag."

"Ye make them sound like an organized army, Os. They're _pirates_. They're the scum-suckin' bottom-dwellers o'humanity."

"If wolves can amalgamate under one leader, why can't pirates?" Oslan responded. "Why struggle for scraps on your own when you can unify and get more from it? Just gotta show you're the strongest and the richest to get them to gather under you."

"How do you know about her?"

"I'm more surprised that you don't." Oslan turned to lock eyes with Andryk. "She's quite infamous, especially on smaller islands where her pirates can bully without interference from authorities. And she's strong—I've heard she took down a merchant fleet that was being escorted by Temerian navy ships."

"Why are they here then?" Andryk asked. "This place is pretty close te Ard Skellig. I'm sure the king wants them danglin' from ropes as soon as he gets his hands on them—the bitch, especially."

"I suspect their boldness has something to do with An Skellig's recent change of leadership," Oslan muttered. "I wouldn't put na Feachd above bribery." His eyes followed the wide arc of a flying tankard before it smashed on the floor. "Believe me, I want to throw them out by their wiry beards as much as you do, but these guys can get _cruel_. Best to stay on their good side for as long as we can. The only thing we should do is keep an eye out and make sure no one gets hurt." A drunken pirate socked his companion in the face, causing spit to fly through the air. "Hm, well… I'm fine with that."

"Where is everyone?" Andryk asked. "The servers? Your wife?"

"Simms herded everyone into the kitchen right before they came here. You were here; didn't you see?"

Andryk thought back to an hour ago. He'd been upstairs to… well. "Nay, wasn't here. I was lookin' for Aegis. Little lass has been hangin' around on the beach all day."

Suddenly, he felt Oslan tense through the air. "Shit!" the blond-haired witcher hissed.

"What?"

"The Pirate Queen is gone." She'd disappeared from the ruckus.

Andryk found it weird that he was calling her that. She wasn't royalty—she was just a common, lowlife bandit. Oslan was getting off the wall, but Andryk told him, "I'll look around." He pushed himself off the wall.

"Go to the kitchen," Oslan said.

She managed to slip past the detection of two witchers… well, to be fair, it was probably because they were talking. They'd been distracted. Andryk went behind the counter and pushed past the back door. She'd definitely come here—that minty, citrus scent made a very clear trail.

The back door led directly into the kitchen. The place was usually pretty spacious, but crowded now that it was filled with bustling cooks. The girls were all sitting in an empty corner. The scent led to them. As Andryk approached them, they looked up expectedly at him.

"Where'd she go?"

"She's waiting for you outside."

Andryk blinked. "She's expectin' me?"

"She told us 'tell the witcher to meet me outside.'"

Indeed, the trail diverged to the door that led out back. Andryk continued to follow it. From the smell of it, she was alone. _Good_. He was going to give that bitch something to be scared of, make her get out of here and take those half-witted cronies with her.

He was out among the crates, but no one was there. Then he heard the whining. Aegis! He shoved his way through the crates and hurried around the corner of the inn. She was standing there with her back towards him. One hand was on her hip, and the other was out of sight. Aegis was pacing in front of her, whimpering loudly.

 _That fuckin' pirate is hurting my little lass!_ That's what Andryk immediately interpreted. Wrath rattled in his head. He flew to her, grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, and whirled her around to slam her against the wall. "Ye'll regret that, ye bi—." Andryk's cheek twitched when she casually flicked the thing into his face. He stopped seeing red, but was still pissed as hell. It was a piece of food—he smelled it as it bounced off of his cheek.

Suddenly, he felt Aegis bump into his leg as she scrambled for the dropped scrap. Before Andryk could steady himself, the wide heel of her boot dug into the crook of his knee. As he buckled down, she grabbed his head and pulled him into her. He couldn't make a sound as her lips moved roughly against his. One hand was running through his hair, massaging his scalp, and the other was wrapped over his back. She pulled him in tighter and moaned into his lips as she rubbed her body against his. His mind instantly became blank except for the certain corner in his brain that lit up.

Wait… what? As he kissed her back, he wondered to himself… Wasn't he supposed to be angry? As she took his loosened hands and slid them down her waist… Wasn't he supposed to hate her? His chest grew tight, and he pulled his mouth away to gasp for air. The shock made him forget to breathe.

The hand on his head pushed him down to her neck. His nose was filled with citrus and evergreen. That tiny corner of his brain took over his entire mind, and he greedily tongued her neck. She let out a sigh, drawn out and wonderful. Andryk moved down to her shoulder, wolfishly grazing across her collarbone.

 _YES! Yes, yes, yes y—… wait…. No, no, no! No! PIRATE!_

He was halfway to her chest when he froze. His eyes flew open. He straightened up, peeling himself off of her. She was still holding him. When his furious eyes met her sultry ones, she slid her hand from his hair and brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek.

"Mmm, it's you," Ronja purred.

Andryk didn't struggle from her hold, unable to think straight. He was very furious and very confused. "Filthy pirate whore!" was all he managed to hiss.

"Oh? A second ago, you were _all over_ this 'filthy pirate whore,'" she replied. Her eyes lowered. She grinded her hips forward. "And it seems you were enjoying her." Andryk felt her press against the already painful tightness in his trousers.

His scowl deepened. "Yer nothin' but a _thing_ te be enjoyed," he growled. He normally condemned being derogatory towards women, but this lowlife pirate was the exception.

Her hand slid down from his cheek and began massaging his beard. Despite his disgust, Andryk shivered with involuntary delight. "Then enjoy me." She snatched his hand, which had been digging into her waist, and guided it up to her breast. His head flickered between anger and mind-numbing lust. Suddenly, he broke out of her embrace and shoved her away.

"Get the fuck off me!" he blurted out.

"Is that how you saw it?" She ran a finger down her chest. Andryk's eyes followed the line she traced.

He tightened his hands into fists, fighting to break out of his trance. "Ye disgusting piece of filth!"

"Are you just going to be mean to me?" Her voice became incredibly sweet. Ronja gazed at him with wide, charming eyes. Andryk had no idea how she managed to suddenly become even hotter. Her hand played with the edge of her blouse collar. "I need your help. Can we make a deal?"

"Ye can take that deal and shove it up yer arse!" Andryk spat back. Ronja advanced on him. For some reason, Andryk's usual fight instinct failed to kick in, and he could only back up against the wall. She pressed up against him. Andryk kept his hands plastered firmly to the inn wall.

"Please, witcher?" she pleaded lightly. "I'll pay you."

Andryk was about to throw another rejection into her face, but hesitated. He needed the money. Bear needed the money. And if what Ronja had said about the Redanian ships was true, they could fatten his pouch up nicely. "What do ye want?"

"There's a cove," Ronja began, tousling with Andryk's beard again, "on the outskirts of the Northern Isles." Her hand came up to his face, and she started tracing his lips with a finger. "We were chasing a ship full of goodies up there. Sirens and harpies picked off their deck crew and caused the vessel to crash into the cove. Now those things are guarding the wreckage jealously." She gently pulled his lower lip down, opening a crack in his mouth. She leaned up until their lips were barely touching. "I need a big, strong witcher to help me get into that cove." Her whisper tickled him. She closed her eyes, and he felt the softness of her tongue glide along the crack between his lips.

 _Fuck it_. His hands left the wall and trapped her against him, his mouth enveloping hers in a kiss that was anything but delicate. He stayed like that until he couldn't bear it and pulled her off.

"Why the fuck would I ever help ye?" he growled. But he already saw the triumph in Ronja's eyes and knew the truth himself—he'd lost.

"Those men died for that loot," Ronja said. "It'd be a shame to just let it rot in the clutches of those things."

"Fine," Andryk said, solidifying his surrender. "I'll kill them for you. I want 25 crowns per harpy head and 60 per siren."

"We'll discuss your payment on board, in my cabin." Andryk felt her hand crawl down his stomach. "It won't just be crowns, you know. Let me give you a little preview." She had his belt unclasped in record time.

 _Practice makes perfect_ , Andryk thought to himself. _And no doubt this whore h—_. All thoughts dropped from his head when he felt her hand on him. A small moan escaped him as he leaned his head back against the wall. His hips began rocking with her. She kissed his neck, and he lowered his head for her to reach his lips.

Andryk reveled in the moment, hatefully savoring the pressure on his lips and groin. Then, in an instant it was all gone. Startled, Andryk opened his eyes and saw that her back was to him as she walked away. "Wait! Where—?"

"I said 'a little preview,'" Ronja replied wickedly. Just as soon as she disappeared around the corner, a small figure came bounding towards him. Horrified, Andryk's hands flew to cover his open trousers.

" _Aegis, no!"_ he yelped. The dog stopped in her tracks and tilted her head inquiringly, staring at his hands.

Andryk removed one of his hands to take a piece of jerky from his belt and threw it as hard as he could. Aegis opened her mouth, her tongue lolling out, as she followed the path of the treat. As soon as it left his hand, she scrabbled against the ground and shot after it. Now Andryk was alone to deal with his predicament.

"Damn _pirate_ ," he grumbled.

* * *

Thankfully, Ronja and her gang were gone by the time Andryk collected enough of his dignity to reenter the inn. The place was a mess—it was as though someone had let in an angry wyvern while the tables were all full. Workers knelt between the table, cleaning up spills and shards. Oslan was among them. The blond witcher turned his head when Andryk came in, and immediately he saw Oslan take a light whiff. Andryk tensed.

"You're fucking _kidding_ me," Oslan mumbled, rising to his feet. "Though I should have suspected when you were out as long as you were."

"Os, hear me out," Andryk said. "She assaulted _me_."

"Oh did she? Her. That little pirate woman assaulted _you_." Oslan stepped over to grab Andryk's huge bicep and give it a little shake. The blond witcher wrinkled his nose and took a step back. "Fucking hell, Addie. You reek like she did!" He sighed, and then nodded towards the rest of the chaotic inn. "Come on. I'll let you redeem yourself by helping out." Andryk cleared his throat and hooked his hands onto his belt. Oslan eyed him warily. "What is it?"

"It's just I… Gotta go."

"Why?"

Andryk directed his eyes towards a puddle of ale by his boot as he muttered, "Told her I would help clear sirens from a cove."

" _What?_ I thought you hated pirates! You said they were the scum-suckers of humanity!"

"I still hate them!"

"Oh really? Did you hate them while you were wriggling your tongue around in her scum-sucking mouth?"

"Don't ye shame me!" Andryk snapped, jabbing a finger into Oslan's chest. "You said it yourself that we need to stay on their good side! And I'm also doin' this fer the guild!"

"You sound like Ko."

" _Exactly!_ Ko goin' inte the Coille didn't exactly speak good things about the school's situation, did it? And ye can't deny that things haven't gotten any better since then!"

That was the truth, and Oslan knew it. Since they were boys, Bear had struggled, just barely getting by. They hadn't conducted a Trial in nearly a decade. Oslan let out an irate huff through his nose and turned away. "Addie," he said.

"What?"

"20 crowns. 20 crowns, you bed her on the first night you embark."

Andryk snorted. "That ain't happenin'! I haven't even killed the sirens—." He quickly silenced himself, but it was too late.

"Are you se—…? Just get out of here, you lemon-scented bastard."

* * *

 _Ain't it crazy_

 _How something that looks so weird to me_

 _Could be so sweet?_

 _Ain't it crazy_

 _How something that looks so savory_

 _Is bad for me?_

"Just a Taste"—Rachel Soglin & Joey Richter


	26. Chapter 26 - Trapper's Cove

_**JustSomeRandomReader01: Ask, and you shall receive. But later; right now we must deal with Pirates of Caribbean gone bad.**_

* * *

He lost the bet. To be fair, Andryk justified to himself as he smacked his palm against his face for the hundredth time, it was because she assaulted him again.

He'd seen the ship at Urialla's Harbor the moment he stepped out of the inn. It was a huge vessel. The second thing he saw was the flag waving lazily above the crow's nest—a dark amber flag with a sneering black skull and a sword clenched between its teeth. The pirates weren't too happy to see his face. In fact, they looked about ready to jump him. A short command by their captain made them heel. She looked to Andryk with a gracious smile that seemed to ooze 'you're welcome.' Andryk desperately wished the captain had been a man so he could punch that condescending grin off without feeling bad.

As they pulled the ramp up from the dock, Ronja had the navigators set the course towards the cove. "Trapper's Cove" was what Andryk heard her call it. What a friendly, pleasant name.

Aegis was running exuberantly around the deck, overjoyed by the sheer size of the ship. She weaved between the bustling crew, eliciting cries of disgust everywhere she went. Finally, she stood at the bow to let her tongue flap in the wind like the skull flag. Ronja beckoned Andryk to her cabin, and spent the next few minutes discussing payment for the clearing of the cove. Surprisingly, the Pirate Queen kept her hands to herself the entire time, though she seemed to make a game out of conducting Andryk's line of sight with little teases. Andryk tried to stare her in the eyes as he insisted his 25/60 payment, but found his gaze flickering down to her thighs when she uncrossed her legs. Or to her chest when she played with the edge of her collar. Or to the reflection in the vanity mirror when she leaned forward and let the waist of her pants slide down.

"60 crowns for a siren?" Ronja repeated with feigned shock. Andryk tore his eyes away from the neckline she had been gently tugging down. "My, my, that's quite a lot, isn't it? Have a tough time with sirens?"

"That's the only price I'll take."

"Oh, Andryk." He had no idea how she knew his name. He never told her. "You'll bleed me dry that way. Girl's gotta eat."

"Cut the bullshite," Andryk growled. "Or ye can clear the cove yerself."

"While you do what? I don't carry deadweight on my ship, witcher. We're already almost 20 nautical miles from An Skellig and any kind of landmass. Although…" Her legs dangled off the vanity as she leaned back to examine him. "You're much too cute to throw overboard." The compliment would've been flattering if she didn't make it sound like she was talking to a small animal.

"Do we have a deal or not? 60 crowns!" Andryk snapped, uncrossing his arms.

Ronja didn't answer. Instead, with her eyes closed, she tilted her head back and sprayed her neck with a small bottle. Andryk was hit with a gust of lemon and wintergreen. He saw the musculature in her neck as she stretched her head back, and that stirred him more than anything else for some reason.

As she lowered her head, Ronja replied, "Fine." She flicked the toe of her boot towards the door. "Dismissed."

 _Dismissing me like one o'her lackeys, that bitch!_ Andryk grumbled in his head as he tromped out of the captain's quarters. _Have half a mind te toss her out and make her siren food._ He whistled for Aegis, but the pup was having a very loud conversation with a shrieking gull.

He went into the room they had given him—well, more like a closet with a cot. Andryk kicked off his boots and settled onto his side. He could still hear Aegis and the gull. Two barks, followed by a shrill caw. Occasionally, he heard the scrabbling of her paws as she whirled around in tight, excited circles. What on earth could they be talking about? Maybe Aegis was telling the gull how she was a pirate dog now. _Don't get too excited, little lass. This is only temporary. Soon as I get the money, I'm leavin' these scum-suckers far behind me_. He fell asleep to the rhythm of two barks and one caw.

Soft steps awoke him. Andryk let his eyes open into slits, listening to the steps that came to his door. Then he remembered— _shit!_ He'd forgotten to let Aegis in. Nights at sea during this time of year were still a bit chilly. As he rolled onto his back, he heard the door open.

Wait a second. As clever as she was, Aegis couldn't open doors. He sat up just as she closed the door behind her. She was barefoot—that's why she sounded so quiet. The circlet around her head was gone too, and so was the belt. Her white blouse billowed loosely around her hips.

"What—?" She was on top of him before he could utter another word. Her hand wrapped around his neck and she pushed him back down. With one hand planted on his stomach, she started grinding on him. Andryk realized the blouse was the only thing she was wearing. His trousers were going to smell like her for a week if she kept going.

"Get o—."

Her hand tightened around his neck. It wasn't enough to block his airway, but it was enough to hoist his colors. She shushed him, her voice growing softer as she leaned forward until their faces were barely an inch apart.

"Shut up and fuck me."

Andryk wasn't the type to tell a pretty face 'no.'

* * *

Well, Andryk thought as he rolled groggily onto his side, Ronja had just ruined all other women for him. That was both good and bad, but mostly bad since he was planning to leave her in his dust after everything was said and done.

She'd left after cleaning up, without even a "good bye" or "good night." Pretty rude in his opinion, especially since he was sure he'd given her a good ride too. As she left, Aegis slipped into the room. Andryk groaned when he felt her paws kneading his back. Aegis whined, begging for a spot in the tiny cot. Giving in, Andryk squished himself against the wall and felt the pup crowd against his back.

Now that he had a moment to quietly reflect, he realized something had been rather strange. He thought back to her—she'd looked perfect in every way and more, but… One of her breasts had been deformed. Pink scars had streaked around a hollowed indent as though a chunk had been taken out. It was just below where the neckline of her blouse went. She must've worn padding to hide it, Andryk supposed. He wondered what happened. But from the moment she stepped in, he never had a chance to ask, being too overwhelmed the entire time. Maybe she'd been sword fighting and her opponent landed an unfortunate blow. Or she'd taken a dip in the ocean and had been attacked by a horny shark.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a trumpet from Aegis's ugly end. Even worse, he felt the vibrations against his back. Andryk buried his face into the pillow. " _Fucking_ hell."

* * *

Andryk had already been stirred awake by the rough boots and grumbling that approached his door. Aegis was still snoring contently against his back. Then the door shook with rattling knocks, and the pup's head flew up.

"Aye?" Andryk grumbled, staring at the wall in front of him.

"Cap wants ye on deck, so get'chur freakish arse up there!"

Andryk groaned and rubbed circles over his eyes. The cot gently sprang up as Aegis jumped off and began pawing the door. Andryk rolled over to look at her. She had paused to stare at him over her shoulder, but once she had his attention she resumed her pawing. The little lass was telling him she had to go relieve herself.

Muttering strings of curses to himself, Andryk leaned over the edge of the bed and stretched a hand towards the doorknob. He managed to turn it, and Aegis shoved the door open and raced out. To be honest, Andryk needed to empty the watering pipe himself. Maybe they'd let him fire away from the edge of the deck, but he doubt he'd get any privacy if he did that. There was probably a bucket somewhere in the galley he could use…

Andryk sat up and pulled his gear on. As the sheets and clothes rustled, he smelt lemon and wintergreen. He pulled the heavy metal and hide coat over his head and, as he pulled on the straps to tighten the armor to his form, thought back to the previous night. She really had been something. Andryk wondered if that was all she was going to give him, but… Thinking about it, there was probably going to be more.

He wasn't in love, no. Andryk had decided that Aegis was as close as he was going to get to love. To be honest, he wasn't really sure what love was, aside from what he could observe from Oslan and Arda. And he definitely didn't feel that way about the pirate whore. She was just fun—like a drunk round of gwent.

As he climbed up the steps, he heard a ruckus up on deck—angry shouting that included "mutt" and "skin that rat." Well fuck, it seemed Aegis dumped her burden where she wasn't supposed to again. Andryk rose up onto the deck, preparing to rescue the poor pup. He saw Aegis cowering against the main mast as a deckhand slowly advanced on her, pounding his large fist into his other hand. "Finally got ye," he growled. "I'll show ye wot 'eppens te lil'mangy troublemakers…"

Andryk quickened his steps. Suddenly, a familiar, sleek figure appeared beside the deckhand, hands planted firmly on the curve of her hips.

"What do you think you're doing? What makes you think you have the free time to waste by chasing the dog around?" Ronja snapped.

"But Cap, it—."

"Left you a mess that you _still_ haven't cleaned up," the Pirate Queen interrupted. "And if in the next minute I don't see that area spotless, I'm feeding you to the drowners!"

The deckhand hurried away without another word. Andryk watched as Ronja knelt down and offered a hand to the shivering Aegis. "Come here, dog," she coaxed gently. "Come to me. I won't hurt you." Aegis stared at Ronja's hand, and then slowly stretched her nose towards it. She tiptoed towards the woman and finally relaxed when Ronja rubbed her head. "There you go, you little… weird thing." The naked tail started wagging. Aegis lifted her head and presented to Ronja the patch of boils on her neck, her favorite spot to be scratched. Most people were turned off at that point, but Ronja rubbed the patch without any hesitation. Aegis opened her mouth and let her normal eye droop lazily.

Given that it was the damned pirate whore petting his little girl, Andryk wasn't the least bit charmed. Hell, he was even a little jealous. Aegis was looking happier than ever. "Don't remember givin' ye permission te touch me dog," he snarled as he approached them.

Without looking up, Ronja replied, "I don't need permission from the likes of you, witcher. And you're late." She knew just how to push his buttons, especially his angry ones.

Rising, Ronja called out towards the wheel, "Anchor us down. This is as close as we get." With a finger, she beckoned Andryk to follow as she walked to the forecastle deck at the front of the ship. Aegis tagged along at her heels. The witcher gave a curt whistle. The dog slowed as she regarded him over his shoulder, then peeled away from the captain to go to his side.

"Why is it always a competition with you men?" Ronja wondered aloud as she climbed the three steps to the forecastle deck.

"I don't want her around a bad influence," Andryk grumbled back.

"Are you any better, frolicking with monsters and mutants alike?"

"Witchers are far better than pirates." Andryk spat out the last word.

"You run around and kill for pay. We're not so different, if you think about it."

"We have codes o'honor. Rules o'conduct."

"We have rules too," Ronja said, turning around once they reached the bow. "If they're alive, it's robbing. If they're dead, it's looting. Either way is fine." She smiled sweetly as Andryk glared wordlessly at her. Turning back to the bow, Ronja pointed to something in the horizon. "There, you see it? The cove. I stopped the ship about a cable and a half away. We can't get any closer, not until you kill the things that are guarding it. Well, witcher?"

"I need a sailboat."

"You'll have to do without. We don't have any of those."

"Yer kiddin'," Andryk said. "What, do ye expect me to swim the 900 feet te get te that fuckin' cove?"

"Andryk," Ronja cooed, slowly stepping towards him. Damn this pirate whore—she was using that honeyed voice again. "I thought witchers were tough." She had her hands on his chest and was gently pushing him back. "Stronger than the strongest man." Andryk felt his bum hit the deck railing. Ronja leaned up to him, engulfing him in that blasted perfume again. "900 feet should be no problem for you, right?"

"Are ye sure ye don't have a raft or—." She silenced him with a kiss that was as vigorous and passionate as the one on An Skellig. Andryk suddenly found himself growing lightheaded. Then he realized it was because he was starting to tip backwards. His eyes popped open as their lips parted. He saw a glimpse of that wicked look. The pressure of her hands left his chest. He tumbled through the air, seeing the side of the ship and the blue water fly in front of his eyes. There was just enough time for him to gasp for air before he felt the strong slap of water.

 _Fucking pirate whore!_ He oriented himself upward and broke through the surface. Andryk looked up and saw the underside of Aegis as she leapt from the ship. He followed her path through the air and turned his face away from the enormous splash she made.

"Give us a signal when you're done," he heard her calling from above.

"Ye didn't have te push me, ye damn bitch!" Andryk shot back. She chuckled in response as she disappeared from the edge. "Come on, little lass." Aegis paddled after him as he steadily swam for the cove. Oh, she must _love_ the sight of him. Despite the cold of the water, Andryk's blood boiled.

Halfway there, Aegis grew tired. Andryk draped her onto his shoulders and continued swimming. As he neared the cove, he spotted sirens and harpies circling above the shore. Others were perched on pieces of wreckage that dotted the shallow waters. Andryk scanned the place, looking for an open spot to quietly slip in. He preferred confronting them on land, especially since Aegis was on top of his crossbow.

Andryk diverted from his path and made a wide arc to go around the cove. Towards the back, he found his lucky break—a short cliff that was far enough from any monster to avoid their detection. Andryk slowed and let the waves push him towards the cliff. When he hit the rock, he quickly grabbed onto it before the water could pull him back out. He shifted Aegis around to hold her under his arm. Then, with one hand, he scaled the short cliff one leap at a time. When they were close to the top, Andryk hoisted Aegis up and let her scrabble over the edge. He grimaced when the pup planted a wet hind paw directly onto his face. Then he climbed up himself.

Andryk took a moment to rest and survey the cove with his senses. Sirens and harpies were all he detected. He'd expected drowners to be attracted to the shipwrecked corpses, but the territorial, winged monsters probably kept them away.

Sirens and harpies were usually easy pickings. The problem was how dense their numbers were. The two of them could probably handle it, but they'd have to be tactical about it. And there was no way they were getting away unscathed.

 _Is this worth it?_ Andryk suddenly wondered. _All this for that sly bitch. I wouldn't put it past her to underpay me once all this is done. She'll do what they always do—try and renegotiate a lower price. Not because she can't pay, but because she's a cheap, spoiled whore who always wants things her way. Aye, she'll cut the prices, and she'll bat her eyes and flaunt her tits until I agree_. And what irked Andryk the most was that he knew he'd agree. She had that effect on him. He hated her.

 _What if I tricked them? Signaled them without clearing the cove? They'd sail closer and get picked off by the monsters._ The thought made him smug. And yet another part of him reeled away from the thought of Ronja getting torn apart by sirens.

Then, the rational side of his mind spoke up. For some reason, he heard it as the voice of the grandmaster. _That is dishonorable._

 _So what? They're pirates?_

 _Does that make it okay to stoop to their level of trickery and murder?_

 _It's not… it's not the same thing!_

 _How so? Give me one reason._

 _They're the evil ones!_

 _That reasoning is the very thing that gives way to war and bloodshed._

 _Damn it, why do ye always have te be right?_ Andryk scrubbed angrily at his hair, and then stood up. At the very least, he was curious to see what kind of loot Ronja had her eyes set on. He trekked quietly through the greenwood that covered the cove's hills. His medallion oscillated intensely as he approached the edge of the forest. The wide shore and wrecked ships were just beyond. The screams of the monsters were nearly deafening. A low growl rumbled from Aegis's throat. Andryk quietly shushed her and signaled her to be stealthy. The pup obeyed and crept on her belly after her master.

Andryk followed a wide semicircle to avoid the part of the beach where most of the monsters occupied. As he snuck between the last row of trees, he surveyed the wreckage. From the looks of it, there hadn't been only one ship that had run ashore. Some were old—green with moss and decay. The newer wreckages had sirens settled over them. The bones within them probably still smelled enough to attract them. The ruined ships were close enough together. Andryk came up with a plan to enter through one of the old wreckages and use the shelter of the ships to sneak into the newer ones.

The shore was covered in boulders large enough to cover him, but Andryk knew sirens and harpies used more than just sight to detect things. Fortunately, they were relaxed, preoccupied with screaming at each other and circling the air. Andryk hopped from one boulder to the other until he was close enough to the wreckage to make a quick dash for it. Once inside the mildewy shambles, Andryk paused to see if any of the monsters had been alerted. Everything seemed good.

"Stay close, little lass," he whispered to Aegis. She looked displeased to be stuck in an environment that smelled so bad. "I'm not faring any better, ye know."

His boots crunched softly on the wet sand as he crept between the chunks of wood. He spied the occasional skeleton of a deceased sailor among the beached flotsam. One skull had a starfish attached over its eye socket.

The place was picked clean, just like the bones of the sailors. Likely the work of pirates, though Andryk wondered how they managed to approach the cove. Maybe they had pillaged the ships before the monsters came to the island.

Suddenly, Aegis scampered from his side. Andryk turned to see her naked tail poking out from behind a large piece of the deck that had caved in. "Oi, little lass! No time for sightseeing!" The pup didn't move. Andryk heard her sniffing furiously at something. "Did ye find somethin'?" He came around the collapsed deck and froze.

He found himself staring at a skeleton. This one was considerably larger than the others he'd seen. It was wearing armor—metal and hide armor. Though it was tattered, Andryk recognized the armor's design. Without thinking, he slowly reached up and touched one of the ring buckles on his chest while gazed down at an identical ring buckle. When Aegis stepped up to sniff the corpse's skull, Andryk saw the Bear medallion resting at the top of the torn chest plate.

Aegis moved on to inspect the pack at the dead witcher's side. Andryk crouched down and opened it. The things inside were astoundingly well-preserved—old potions that had gone bad, shriveled ingredients, and a leather-bound journal. It was dry.

Andryk quickly opened the journal. The pages were yellowed, but the writing was still legible. Apparently, the witcher had used it to log his experiences. Andryk flipped to the last entry. It was dated from four years ago.

 _July 20, 1083_

 _Found myself saddled with pirates again. They're not so bad to work with, not unless you find yourself working for a bunch of cheapskates. The king hates them—understandable, since they rob his people before raping and killing them. King's got enough wealth anyway._

 _This time, it's different. I'm working for their 'queen' now. Didn't know pirates had a hierarchy apart from sword-swinger and deck-scrubber. She's not what you expect from a queen. Half the time she acts like the mistress to a crew of slaves, and half the time she acts like a succubus. Not complaining about the latter. She's a little too young for my tastes, but she's old enough to have a body and she knows how to use it._

 _What they want me to do is simple: clear out a cove. Their queen explained it while she was rubbing her tits all over me. They chased a merchant's ship until it got attacked by sirens and crashed into the cove. Now they want me to do clean up duty before they swoop in and snatch the goodies. Seems simple enough. And from the sounds of it, they're paying me in crowns and sex. Not a bad deal._

There was another entry written on the next page, apparently from the same day.

 _Heard something interesting earlier. Some of the pirates got a little too friendly with the drink and spilled out this little nugget—the cove, Trapper's Cove as they called it, is their little surefire way of downing single ships. They've been using it for years. Apparently, they intentionally steer the merchants towards it so that the sirens get them. Their goods stay nice and safe on the shores until they can get a witcher to do their dirty work. Then, they wait until the cove becomes populated with monsters again—like reloading a crossbow. Trapper's Cove. Aptly named._

 _They sent their own pirates in at first to kill the sirens. Didn't work. Then they sent the strongest warriors they could find. Didn't work. Then they sent witchers._

 _I wonder how many men that whore queen has seduced. She seems to know the tune any man dances to, and she plays it well. She's a dangerous one._

After he was done reading, Andryk slipped the journal back into the pouch, closed it, and returned it to the dead witcher's side. Aegis was down by the corpse's frayed boots, smelling the soles. "Come on, Aegis," Andryk grumbled, walking away from the corpse. The pup perked up her head and hurried after him.

They bothered him more than it should have, those words about _her_. He didn't know why they made him so angry. Was it because they told him he'd been played like a bard's lute? Or was it because they told him that he hadn't been the only one she'd kissed like that?

 _The fuck does it matter?_ Andryk emerged from the ruins of the old ship and slipped into the neighboring one. He stopped when he saw a harpy roosting only a few feet away and quickly ducked behind a piece of debris. His hand reached back and had just touched the grip when he heard a shriek come from outside the wreckage. The harpy near him screeched in reply and launched itself out of a hole in the hull.

Andryk peeked from behind the debris, his eyes darting around to survey his surroundings. The coast was clear. He emerged and stepped softly as he examined the interior of the dark belly of the ship. This was the newest wreckage. Andryk saw barrels, crates, and racks of fabric scattered around the hold. His gaze suddenly fell on a small chest that had been thrown into a corner. It was locked, but one of its sides was smashed. Andryk caught a bit of red peeking from the splinters.

It looked important—as if the locked chest didn't say enough. Andryk hurried over and crouched down. He brushed the wooden shreds aside and pulled the thing out. It was a large red stone—uncut ruby if he had to guess. The rock was as large as his fist, gauntlet and all.

"Look at that, little lass," Andryk murmured, offering the stone to Aegis. She sniffed at it and gave it a curious lick. When she discovered that it was tasteless and not delicious at all, she immediately lost interest. "Big ol'chunk like this ought te fetch a mighty price in the underworld." The merchants that had crewed this ship lost their lives for this little heart-sized stone. This was what the Pirate Queen had run them into the cove for.

An idea crossed Andryk's mind. He turned the stone around in his hand, watching the dim ray of light shine on the ruby's smooth, clouded surface. He was going to clear the cove, not because she asked but because he wanted to confront her for answers. And when she came sauntering in to collect her dirty reward, there was going to be a catch.

Andryk tucked the ruby protectively into his pouch. If she wasn't going to play fair, then neither would he.

* * *

 _I took an oath, but I'm giving it up_

 _You didn't have to see things my way_

 _Nothing more than a casual fuck_

 _Isn't that just how we operate?_

 _Let's drink to feelings of temptation_

 _You and I, we're an overnight sensation_

"A Party Song (The Walk of Shame)"—All Time Low

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Any dog owner is very acquainted with the whoopsie-poopsie.**_


	27. Chapter 27 - The Upper Hand

Another peek told him what he already knew—this wasn't going to be easy. Andryk returned behind the rock, rolling the empty potion bottle in his hand. His tongue and throat were still burning minutes later, and it felt like something was trying to claw out of his stomach. Full Moon still was the worst potion he'd ever taken. Back when he was a student at the school, the masters had given him just a sip to preview the effects. He had sworn the stuff was going to burn a whole through his stomach and eat straight through his insides.

He listened to the screeches of the monsters as he knelt behind the rock, waiting for the effect of the potion to reach its peak. No doubt he was already starting to look nightmarish. Andryk's face, his only exposed skin, had probably gone papery white. The jet-black veins that snaked across his face and gathered around his eyelids saved him from looking completely like a corpse. Instead, he probably looked like a possessed corpse.

Thankfully, Aegis never seemed to mind. She was too preoccupied with trying to steal a lick from the empty bottle. Andryk hid the bottle behind his back and pushed Aegis away when she tried to follow it. Why she even wanted the putrid stuff was beyond him, though this was the creature that loved scarfing down her own vomit.

Andryk let out another slow breath. The toxicity of the potion pricked like hot needles through his body. He would definitely need White Honey for this one. The masters insisted the use of White Honey after every potion, but that was something only a prissy, abiding witcher like Oslan would do. Andryk preferred to ride out the toxicity with a few swigs of strong juniper ale.

Flexing his shoulders, Andryk knew the effects of Full Moon were set. The potion reinforced his body, allowed him to take twice as much abuse. He was going to need that advantage, especially for all the flying claws he was going to be at the receiving ends of. Andryk returned the bottle to his belt. He reached back to his silver blade and unsheathed it. The oiled hide that rimmed the throat of the scabbard silenced the sound of the draw. Aegis immediately recognized the gesture and grew rigid, her breathing quick and excited.

"Now hold on, little lass," Andryk told her quietly. "Wait fer the right openin'. Can't just go chargin' in." By 'wait,' he meant 'create.' If they waited, he and Aegis would rot into skeletons before any ideal opening naturally presented itself. Andryk pulled a little special something from his pack. Zerrikanian Sun was going to be his best friend—when it blinded the monsters, he'd be able to shave off their numbers and even the odds. Then, the rest would be history.

An ear-splitting screech caught his attention. Andryk peered and caught a glimpse of the chaos that had exploded just a few feet away from where he was. Two harpies had apparently looked at each other the wrong way and were now tangled in a writhing mess of clawing fury. Feathers were being thrown everywhere.

The feral energy quickly spread to Aegis like a plague. Before Andryk could stop her, the pup raced towards the fighting pair while barking like mad. Every siren and harpy in proximity startled, flying up into the air. Their terrible chorus was so deafening, Andryk was sure even the pirates could hear it.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck!"_ Andryk snapped. There went his plan.

* * *

He must have charged in headfirst, given the awful racket that was coming from the cove. That wasn't what she'd expected from a man of his profession, but it seemed so very _him_. She watched from the bow of the ship, but she couldn't see a thing. It didn't matter. All she needed to look out for was the signal.

Would he be able to send it? Those screeches were bloodcurdling—they'd make any member of her crew shit their pants. _They didn't refer to him as the hero of Fornhala for nothing,_ Ronja reasoned to herself. _So he must be doing something right._

About half an hour later, her thoughts were confirmed. She spotted a small explosion that detonated a few feet above shore. _I'm starting to like this one more and more_. She turned to the deck and began issuing orders. Soon, her beloved ship, the Palanquin, began moving towards the cove. It was time to get rich. She had her eyes set on a certain something within the wreckage of that merchant ship. The rest of the goods were trivial—what she really wanted that thing in the box.

The box, she found once they reached the cove, was smashed and empty. With the heel of her boot, Ronja tilted the chest until its splintered side face upward into the light. Around her, the men had looks of anxious discomfort, worried that their queen might turn the blame and her wrath onto any one of them.

"What are you all standing around for?" They straightened. "Load everything you can find onto the ship. Get to it!" The wreckage became alive with activity as the pirates bustled to carry out her orders.

Meanwhile, Ronja left the ship to follow the sets of tracks that led further down the beach. They led to a lone ship at the far end of the shore. It was large, once a flagship. He knew she was going to follow him in there. _Thinking he can take me on alone? Those things on the shore must have done a number to his head._

A piece of the hull towards the back of the flagship had been completely torn off, showing the skeletal structure underneath. Ronja stepped into the bottom tier of the ship. The place was a mess—what hadn't already fallen apart was in the process of rotting and sagging. Rope, netting, and torn canvas hung from the ceiling like jungle foliage. The witcher was nowhere to be seen. He was likely on the deck above—the orlop deck.

As Ronja made her way to the stairs, she noticed a part of the orlop deck that had collapsed down. The hole it made was filled with ropes that dangled down like looping vines.

She ascended the stairs, careful to test the unstable steps. The two of them were there when she came up, waiting for her it seemed. Aegis was lying on the floor, her coat crisscrossed with bandages. He was sitting on an overturned crate, swigging something down from a small glass vial. His wounds, she noticed, were not dressed, but were not bleeding either.

He didn't look at her when she came to them and stopped a few feet away. Aegis, on the other hand, acknowledged her with a wag of her tail.

"You have what I want." She wasn't going to waste time with pleasantries this time.

"Hell, woman. Didn't think ye'd ask me te drop me trousers in a place like this," was his response.

His little quips usually amused her, but this time she was running out of patience. "The rock. Give me it."

"Ye'll get yer damn stone when I get my answers," Andryk said, rising to his feet. He was angry and battle worn, and that invigorated her. "This cove, those sirens and harpies—ye and yer nasty pirates have been usin' it like a weapon, haven't ye? A nice, convenient weapon te take down ships and safeguard them from any other scavengers."

"I'm impressed," Ronja purred. Now that he was on his feet, things were looking ideal. She began casually strolling past him. "Did you manage to figure all that out on your own?" She gave him a backwards glance. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Andryk. I didn't lie to you, did I? All I said was that I needed you to clear a cove out for me. And you were so _eager_ to hop on board. Which part of the reward enticed you the most, I wonder? Surely it wasn't the crowns."

Something about what she said seemed to light another fire within him. "And another thing," he snapped. Andryk's hand flew up and grabbed the chain of his medallion. "I'm not the first one ye've sent, am I?"

Ronja stopped and turned towards him. "So you found him. Does that make you jealous?" She laughed. Putting on her sweet voice, she said, "Andryk, if it makes you feel any better, I like you more. He was much too rough, and you're just my type."

"What's yer type? A sap who eats out o'yer hand and does what ye tell 'em?"

"Among other things."

"Should have never trusted the likes o'ye." Andryk took a step towards her. Ronja took another back, doing a quick calculation in her head. "920 crowns. That's what ye owe me. Now pay up so I can leave yer sorry face behind me where I don't have te see it."

Ronja placed a hand over her chest. "That hurts," she said, taking another step back. "And I'm not paying you until you give me the ruby."

"That wasn't part of our deal. You asked me to clear the cove; I cleared it."

"I'm not giving you the money any other way."

"How daft do ye think I am, darlin'?" Andryk said. "I know this thing's worth a lot more than 920 crowns. Think I might keep it as compensation for pushin' me over the edge."

"You can't take that," Ronja argued, letting herself grow visibly upset. The witcher turned to leave. "Andryk!" He looked back, and that was the moment she had him. She took another step back and stumbled. The hole from the collapsed part of the deck had been right behind her, and she'd been too distracted to notice it—or at least that's what she let Andryk think. Ronja gave an alarmed gasp as she fell backwards. She watched Andryk lunge for her, extending an arm. Ronja reached for him with one hand, while the other reached back for the torn sail that she knew was there.

He caught her by the hand. Instead of letting him pull her back up, Ronja yanked him to her. Andryk fell forward into the hole while Ronja swung back on the sail.

 _"Fuck!"_

With complacent satisfaction, Ronja lowered herself and dropped down. Aegis yammered from the edge of the hole. Andryk was dangling a few feet from the ground, the ropes tangled around him like a net. He tried to struggle against the mishmash, but his limbs were bound in place.

"I have to admit, I like seeing you all tied up like this," Ronja teased, taking a moment to admire him. Then, she started searching through the pouches on his belt.

"Fuckin' bitch!" Andryk snapped back, fighting against the ropes.

As she pulled the ruby out, Ronja let out a soft chuckle. She bent down over Andryk's face and ran a hand down one of the scars on his face. "Oh, Andryk," she sighed. "Trying to rescue poor me from a nasty fall? You're such a good man. But good men are _so_ weak." She kissed him gently, and then said, "I've had fun working with you, but it's time for me to go."

"So yer just goin' te leave me here?" Andryk growled, glaring up her. "Leave me fer dead? Just like that other witcher?"

"Something tells me I should," Ronja replied. "But like I said before—you're too cute." She slipped the bone dagger out from his shoulder and tucked it between his teeth. Then, she straightened up. With the ruby held in her hand, she turned away. "Bye, Andryk," Ronja called over her shoulder. "Thanks again."

Even as she walked out of the ship, leaving the witcher behind in those ropes to shout muffled curses and vile names at her back, she had a feeling she'd see him again.

* * *

His second year on the Continent was just as fascinating as the first. Of course, people still treated him pretty much the same—like a witcher. Kozin got the idea that a lot of people here disliked Skelligers. Well, the people of the isles did have a habit for raiding coastal villages and ships. Then there were those who didn't scowl and hiss at his eyes or his accent—they were just as annoying. Kozin was sick and tired of people ignoring his words and instead remarking about his accent. He hated the words "are you from the isles?" Even in his second season, he still hadn't heard the end of it. Well, _their_ accents were strange to him too.

He met other witchers—one from Viper, two from Griffon. They'd sit down for drinks and share a few stories. They all told him the same thing: never had they seen a Bear witcher. He told them that most of his guild remained in Skellige. They asked him what brought him to the mainland, and Kozin would tell them that the Path led him here. He meant it as fodder, but maybe there was an ounce of truth to it.

Evening had dimmed into night. Kozin sat on a fence post, resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other. He gripped the bowl of his pipe delicately with a hand while he puffed silently on the other end. His horse was grazing nearby. It was a nice night. Hard to imagine the day preceding it had been filled with the bloody claws and rancid stench of the necrophage he had been contracted to take care of. Now with that hideous contract over and done, Kozin figured he earned himself a night of relaxation in the quiet Redanian countryside.

It was mid-August, he reflected as he blew out another plume of smoke. In a few months, the wind would turn cold. He needed to give himself at least two weeks of travel time to make it back to the guild before the ice. But then again, Kozin considered, perhaps he could spend the winter at another guild. But he didn't exactly relish the idea of being confined in a keep with foreign witchers, even if they all supposed to be brothers.

A creak of the fence broke through Kozin's thoughts and set him on high alert. However, he didn't move save for a slow turn of his head. A man was leaning on the fence a few feet away. His arms were crossed and he stared forward into the night. Kozin wondered how he hadn't noticed this stranger approach. The man didn't look particularly light-footed or at all impressive in any way. His head was shaved, and he wore clothes that appeared to be made out of some sort of hide. The only particularly noteworthy thing about him was the small sack that hung from a loose chain around his neck.

He clearly had something to say to the witcher. A contract, maybe? Kozin looked away, irritated that his quiet night had been interrupted. He took another pull from the pipe.

"You look like an interesting one."

Kozin flicked his eyes closer to but not at the stranger. "Hm," he grunted. "Flirting with me?"

"When a man has seen and done the things as you have, what kind of things does he desire?" the stranger wondered aloud. "Boundless strength? Power? Or perhaps…" Kozin could feel the man turning to him. "… Peace of mind?"

"Try a night of peace and quiet," Kozin replied, finally looking at the man. Their eyes met. This man, this unimpressive man, somehow made the back of his neck prickle. "Who are you?"

"Me? You could say a merchant," the man answered simply.

"You could say?" Kozin repeated.

"That's right. I sell things. People find my wares quite… enticing."

"Funny," Kozin said, turning back to his pipe. "I heard the madam of a brothel tell me that once. You wouldn't happen to be one as well, would you?"

"I'm afraid my wares don't bring you much pleasure except what you can get from your own reflection," the stranger said. "I am but a humble vendor of mirrors."

"Don't see a cart."

"They're much too delicate and heavy to tote around. But fear not, I carry with me a much lighter commodity—a much more valuable one."

A mirror merchant with no mirrors? "And that is?"

"A wish."

His voice came from the opposite side of the fence. Kozin jerked his head to where the merchant now stood, leaning casually on the fence as though nothing had happened. _A mage, surely_ , Kozin justified to himself. "Wish? You playing djinn now?"

The merchant unclasped his hands in front of him and shrugged innocently. "That is what I offer, witcher."

 _I wish you'd leave me alone_. "Shame," Kozin replied with a ribbing tone, "Had you your mirrors, I might be tempted. Could use a small one for my beard. As it is, I have no interest in your offer." To secure the end of the conversation, and to add one final jest, he added, "I bid you good night, Master Mirror."

He heard a soft chuckle come from the merchant. "I quite like that," the man mused. "Very well. A good peddler goes to where his wares are desired. We'll meet again, I'm sure."

"Don't count on it." But Kozin found himself only talking to empty night air.

* * *

He managed to saw through a few of the ropes, and Aegis chewed through some that were constricting his legs. Then he heard the telltale groan of wood above him and wiggled fervently. "Aegis, get back!" The rotted deck gave away, slacking the ropes and dropping the tangled witcher onto more soggy wood. Andryk grunted when he hit the ground, which transformed into irritated curses under his breath as he wrestled the rest of the ropes off.

"Swear if I _ever_ see that pirate whore again…" he mumbled, furiously kicking the last of the rope aside. Aegis came up to him to give him a comforting lick on the face. Andryk ruffled her neck. "So much fer havin' the upper hand, huh? Ye all right, little lass?" He checked her bandages. They were still securely wrapped over her cuts. Standing up, he said, "All right, let's get out o'here. Back te An Skellig… somehow." Maybe one of the ships was carrying a smaller sail in its hull. Or, more likely, he'd have to pull planks from the less rotted ships to fasten into something.

They returned to the beach where the monster corpses were. The beach was empty except for the wet, maroon sand and… sacks. Immediately, Aegis hurried towards them to see if they contained goodies. Apparently nothing in them enticed the pup, as she gave them a quick sniffing over and wandered away. Andryk approached the sacks and opened one of them. Inside were crowns. Andryk gripped the sack by its neck and lifted it up—heavy, sizeable. He looked at the other 3 sacks. 920 crowns, just as promised.

Andryk sighed. "Fantastic. How am I supposed te get _these_ te An Skellig?" He looked over at Aegis, who was squatting to urinate in the shallow water. Andryk rose and looked towards the old, green shipwreck. He thought for a moment, and then headed towards it.

He stopped in front of the body, staring silently down at it. Andryk didn't know why he was doing this. It just felt like the appropriate thing to do. The body in front of him had been a witcher, and that was enough to make some sort of bond between them.

Should he… talk to it? Andryk never knew what to say to the departed. The grandmaster was good at that—after Trials, after casualties, Undevar would stand on the shore and send off the souls with words of blessing. But to Andryk, talking to dead people was a weird notion. But it was a sacred tradition, so what the hell?

"Mate, I didn't know ye," he began gruffly. "And from the words in yer journal, I don't think I would'a liked ye much either. Maybe I would'a. I dunno." Andryk crouched down, watching the light play off of the Bear medallion. "All I know is that we both got hooked inte this by that she-devil, and ye got the unlucky hand." He opened the dead witcher's pouch and pulled from it the worn journal. "I'm not about te let scavengers ransack a witcher's belongin's te hawk out fer coin. It ain't right, and I think ye'd agree." Andryk tucked the journal into his own pouch and reached to slip the Bear medallion off from the witcher's neck. As he did, the skull lolled gently away from him. Andryk gazed at the medallion, using a thumb to brush the dust off. Then, something behind the medallion caught his attention—the skeleton's neck.

Andryk leaned down to get a closer look. There was a small slit in the spine, a thin incision that had sliced the bone. Andryk reached down and carefully traced the line. It was too narrow, too delicate, to have been made by a monster's claws. A sword had made it.

His fist tightened around the medallion. _I wouldn't have put it past her_ , Andryk thought angrily, _to get rid of loose ends like this_. _She tried to do the same with me._

But if she wanted him dead, she would've finished him off herself back in that old flagship. Andryk knew Ronja wasn't the kind of person to leave anything to chance. _Still can't trust her. She probably had her crafty, conniving reasons_.

He still wasn't done here. Andryk took the silver sword from the witcher's back. It was heavily rusted from years of neglect. That didn't matter, as it had served its purpose and was no longer needed. Andryk laid the sword over the witcher's body, placing the gauntlets and the shriveled hands beneath them over the hilt. Then he rose, making sure Aegis was close to his side with a shrill whistle as he walked out of the wreckage.

It only took one blast of Aard to get the rest of the ship folding in on itself. The gust of wind that blew out from the collapsing wreck pushed back Andryk's hair as he watched. Then, he looked down at Aegis. "Come on, little lass. There's wood, rope, and sail. Let's build a boat."

* * *

 _Somebody told me_

 _If I'm not careful, well_

 _This one's gonna roll me_

 _And control me_

"She Sets the City on Fire"—Gavin DeGraw


	28. Chapter 28 - For the Queen

_**JustSomeRandomReader01-those are the Ursine armor sets that appear in the Witcher 3 DLC, right (I can't remember which one)? The events of that DLC occur a little under a century into the "future" from right now as of this chapter. If they have been crafted already, they're with the School of Bear. If you're referring to who collects them in the "future," then it's very obviously Geralt because no amount of loot will satiate that guy :)**_

* * *

"Addie? Why are you sopping wet?"

Andryk replied with an unenthusiastic grunt as he crossed through the doorway. He didn't feel like telling them that his makeshift boat had fallen apart about two miles from shore, and that he had to swim those two miles with the weight of 920 crowns. Aegis was a little drier than he was, having shaken her coat out no less than ten times before reaching the house. As they walked in, Arda whisked out of the room and returned in a blink with a towel. Oslan helped Andryk out of his wet armor. Andryk peeled off his shirt and stuck it out the window to wring. Oslan watched with raised eyebrows as an impressive amount of water came out.

"Cove didn't give you much trouble, did it?"

Andryk grunted again.

"How were the lovely pirates? Make any new friends?"

Andryk reached down into his pouch and took out a handful of crowns. He counted them out, and then dumped them onto the table as he took a seat. Dipping his head down, he rubbed the towel through his dripping hair.

Oslan and Arda exchanged confused looks. When Oslan spread the crowns out and counted 20, his face changed into that of disbelief. He let out a sigh and leaned against the table. "And you _still_ smell like her, you know that?"

Andryk leaned his elbows on his kneels, clutching the towel in his hands. "I need te find her."

"Sorry?"

"Os, she killed a witcher." Andryk looked up at him. "A Bear. One o'us." He took the second medallion from his belt and showed it to Oslan. "I found him on the cove."

"You sure a monster didn't get him?"

"There was an incision in his spine that came from a sword. Someone stabbed him in the neck. Unless you show me a siren or harpy that can swing one o'those around, there's only one explanation for what happened to him. No one else goes te that cove."

Oslan shrugged. "How are you going to find her? They haven't come here."

Andryk had an idea where they could be. "They can't go te Ard Skellig either—can't get too close te the king. I doubt they went te Faroe. Os, if you wanted te sell te a prolific black market, where would ye go?"

This time, Arda spoke up. "There was a 'ouse when I was growin' oop… folks called it 'The Bad 'Ouse.' Told us te stay away—the people livin' innit were bad, an' bought'n'sold te other bad people. Now that I think back, I'm sure soom o'the other 'bad people' were pirates."

"Spikeroog. O'course," Andryk said. "Conveniently close te the Northern Islands." He stood and pulled on his damp shirt. Arda tried to protest. "If I go now, I can make it before sunrise."

"Ye can't go oot in those wet clothes!"

Andryk threw his arms open, throwing droplets of water around the room, and then pulled his last gauntlet on. "The wind'll dry me off. Aegis!" The pup looked over to Andryk, snatched one last piece of ham from the kitchen counter, and hurried out after her master.

* * *

He saw their ship in the distance as he approached Spikeroog—a large, black mass that blotted out the stars. Andryk slowed his boat and stilled himself to listen. The ship was quiet. Likely all pirates had gone onto land to bask in what their spoils could get them in Svorlag.

But then, as Andryk drifted his boat next to the hull of the ship, he heard one set of heartbeats coming from the deck above. Slow, even breaths. And that fragrance. Andryk knew who was waiting for him on the deck above. He docked his boat and had Aegis stay. The pup promptly curled up at the bottom of the boat and fell asleep. Andryk stepped up onto the dock and found the ship's ramp. As he climbed up to the deck, he drew his steel sword.

She stood with her back to him, her hands placed daintily over the rails. When he was halfway across the deck, she mused quietly, "How did I know?" She gave a delicate sigh and tilted her head back. Andryk heard the soft hiss of a spray bottle and caught a strong whiff of minty lemon. For a second, his mind felt clouded, but he blinked the drowsiness away. Ronja turned when he was only a few feet from her. Andryk saw the icy blue eyes settle on him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"The witcher on Trapper's Cove," Andryk growled. "Ye killed him."

"Did you know him? I shouldn't think so. You and him are so very different." She slid her hand against the rail. Andryk's eyes followed it. Again, he felt it—that inability to concentrate. "Is that why you're here, sword in hand?" Her brow furrowed as she gazed at him with a pleading look. "Andryk, I had to. He tried to kill me."

"I don't believe ye."

"He wasn't like you. He was greedy, arrogant."

"Sounds like someone I know."

"We gave him what we promised, but he tried to demand more. I reminded him of our deal, and he turned on me."

" _Lies!"_ Andryk roared. "Nothing but lies! That's all that comes out o'yer mouth! Yer nothin' but a treacherous, slitherin' snake!" He swung his sword.

Ronja drew her own saber in a flash and parried. Her weapon was hardly even half the weight of the witcher's broadsword, but she used it to slow his strike down enough to step out of the way. Metal whistled as the two blades slid against each other. Andryk brought his sword around with a quick swoop and swiped it to where the pirate now was. Again, Ronja backed quickly out of the blade's range. Andryk realized that she was quick enough to take the split second window he had left for her, but she didn't take the opportunity. Maybe she wasn't as skilled a swordsman as he'd thought.

The fight continued in the same manner. He'd attack, and she'd slip out from the path of his blade. Not once did she strike at him except to cautiously parry. Then, strangely, Andryk saw her attempt to parry one of his strong, focused blows. The power of the broadsword sent the saber flying out of Ronja's hand almost, Andryk thought, with no resistance. She gave a frightened gasp as her saber slid in wide circles across the deck.

Andryk raised his blade, prepared to give the final blow. Then he hesitated, his mind clouding with doubt as he gazed at the defenseless woman and breathed in her scent. He couldn't kill her like this, not when she was without a weapon. It was disgraceful.

 _She had a weapon a second ago!_ He tried to reason with himself to move the sword. But he couldn't do it, not when she stared wide-eyed at him like a cornered doe. _No! Not a doe! She's a snake! A snake!_

"Andryk, please." Her voice was barely a whisper. His mind wavered. Minty lemon.

"Why shouldn't I?"

Her hand moved faster than he could follow. But Andryk didn't feel the wicked touch of a dagger. He felt the stinging spray of vaporized liquid hitting his face, blasting his senses with lemon. Andryk sputtered and turned away, letting the tip of his broadsword drop and dig into the deck as he fervently wiped his eyes with his other hand. The scent was so overpowering! Andryk scrubbed his face, but it didn't lessen. He could hardly think straight.

Then he heard her voice, loud and clear. "Andryk." It was soft. He loved the sound of it. "Look at me." He raised his head and looked at her. She was absolutely beautiful. The sight of her pale eyes twisted his heart. She beckoned him with a finger, and he came to her.

"Kiss me." He did, wrapping her tightly against him and kissing her with a lover's passion. He didn't want to leave the intoxicating touch of her lips until he felt her hand gently push against his chest. Reluctantly, he parted from her and once again found himself swimming in the blueness of her eyes.

"Andryk," her voice was deathly quiet. "Do you love me?"

Love? He felt as though his heart was bursting with it, thrumming violently against his chest. Andryk gazed down at this woman, his queen. "I do." Through his eyes, he begged for her lips again until she, his gracious queen, obliged. He was so ensnared in her kiss, sweet and cruel at the same time, that he failed to realize that the thrumming in his chest was his medallion reacting to magic.

Ronja pulled away from him, though he clung desperately to her. With smoldering eyes, she looked up at with a desire that matched his. "Then show me."

Andryk obeyed his queen. Fingers pulled frantically at cloth, craving for the skin underneath. A thick, crazed, blinding fog crowded his mind, causing him to flicker in and out of awareness. He had her against the mast, her legs wrapped around his waist and pinning him to her. His face was buried against her shoulder, gasping in the scent of lemon and wintergreen like he was suffocating. The sounds she made filled his mind.

The fog seemed to finally lift from his mind as Andryk found himself panting with his forehead pressed against the wood next to her head. The sensation of her hands caressing his back in long, sensual strokes was euphoric. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, something felt off. "What's happenin' te me?" he asked breathlessly.

She turned her head and kissed his temple. "We fell in love," she answered.

They did. Andryk had never felt love like this before. It was captivating. But when Ronja led him by the hand to her cabin, that blissful numbness slowly crept into a throbbing headache. Andryk sat on the edge of her bed as Ronja prepared a bath in a curved tub at the opposite end. He groaned, cradling his head in his hands.

"It'll pass," Ronja assured, her head relaxed against the smooth lip of the tub. After a few minutes, the pain did indeed fade. Andryk looked up and saw her reclined in the bath. The air felt warm from the steam, and Andryk could feel the dampness cling to his skin.

"Andryk, I need your help." Ronja raised her head and looked at him. Andryk stared back. Why the hell would he help her? She was a filthy… No, he loved her. He would do anything for her.

"What do ye need?"

"In a week's time, after my boys have rested, we're setting course for Bremervoord. The princedom is young, and I doubt it has a developed militia yet. Its port is glimmering with pearls and, well, I'm sure they wouldn't mind parting with a few."

"That's wrong."

 _"Andryk_." Ronja smiled at him. His heart pattered. "We're pirates. It's what we do."

"I won't let ye."

She leaned towards him, gripping the edge of the tub. "Are you going to stop me?" she asked sweetly. "Would you be that horrible to me?"

Andryk blinked. "No."

"That's my good witcher."

* * *

She was impressed. Hardly had she ever used the full effects of the bottle's contents, but its power never disappointed. Ronja rolled the bottle between its fingers as she sat cross-legged at the vanity. The witcher slept in her bed, utterly exhausted. Ronja could tell he had been the type of man to freely satiate his bodily desires, and the bottle only magnified that lust. Only now, he focused it all on her. A smile played on her lips as she entertained the thought of keeping this witcher around for a good long while. He was easy on the eyes, and she enjoyed a man who carried as much raw power as he did.

Ronja lifted her chin and sprayed the perfume onto her neck to replace what had been washed off from the bath. Just the smell of it, the enchantress whom she commissioned it from told her, would weaken the mind and leave it vulnerable to her will. It was how she controlled this ship, those vile dogs. There were only a few men, brawny arms, who had strong loyalty to her.

A concentrated blast, the enchantress had continued, would leave the mind completely open. "Whisper their name in a lover's voice," were the instruction, "and ask of them what you want." Love, loyalty, or anything else. They were hers as long as they remained trapped in that scented cloud. She had strong, brutal men to scare the rest into following their queen. And she had a witcher gripped so strongly by what he thought was love that he was willing to do anything for her.

Ronja stretched, arching her back, then rose. With one last glance towards the sleeping figure, she left the cabin to climb up onto the deck. The few hands that were maintaining the ship for the night shuffled wordlessly to do their tasks. Ronja came up beside the navigator at the wheel. "How long before we arrive?" she asked, her eyes flickering up the waxing moon overhead.

"Shan't tek long, yer Majesty," the hunched navigator replied, one cheek bulging with chewing tobacco. "Bremervoord port sticks out o'tha Continent like tha nose o'a hag, it do. By me thinkun, we otta reach tha place by sundown tumurreh."

"A good time," Ronja remarked. "The fishermen will be tired and lazy at that point."

"Aye," the navigator agreed. He ducked his head down to huck spit and tobacco juice into a nearby pail. "Me queen, mayhaps we otta rally up some o'our other ships fer this one."

"It's a simple port with no official form of defense," Ronja replied. "We don't need reinforcements."

"Is just, me ol'bones are feelin'—."

"Your old bones don't command this ship," Ronja interrupted.

The navigator pocketed the tobacco in his other cheek and dipped his head. "Beggin' yer forgiveness, yer Majesty."

"Tonight, I'm feeling generous. You are forgiven. But if you ever get the urge to tell me how your old bones defy me, just remember—I can always have someone else navigate this ship." Ronja left the wheel and stepped down onto the main deck. She saw Aegis pacing around in anxious circles around the main mast. Ever since that night, the dog had been restless. Perhaps she sensed the change in the witcher.

Ronja ignored the animal and turned to the gargantuan man, who stood by the cabin doors and watched the night crew with sharp eyes. "We raid at sundown," she told him. "I want everyone to know we attack as soon as we land. If there's any sword hand not ready by the time the ramp hits the shore, I want it off at the wrist." The gargantuan man gave a solemn nod. Ronja walked past him and pushed past the cabin doors into her quarters.

The witcher was awake. He'd dressed himself in his trousers and now stood at her vanity, inspecting one of the bottles. Protectively, Ronja's eyes flashed to the perfume bottle. Then she reminded herself that there was no need to fear. The witcher was on her side now. Quickly, she relaxed. "Rest well?" she asked as she came to him and draped an arm across his chest.

"Aye." His arm came around her waist, his hand resting against the small of her back. "Rested enough te go fer a second round." As the witcher's hand slid up her back, Ronja felt it take the hem of her blouse with it.

"As tempting as that sounds, I need you ready for tomorrow. We'll be at Bremervoord by the time the sun sets." She drew away from him, reveling in the disappointment and longing in his eyes.

He gave her a grin and leaned on the vanity with one arm. "Ye think I can't take ye te heaven and back one more time and not have enough in me fer tomorrow?" He thumped his chest. "Stronger than the strongest man, remember?"

Ronja laughed and traced his sculpted shoulders with her fingertips. She was glad the spell had preserved the man within the witcher instead of reducing him to a lovesick puppy.

Pressed against his chest, Ronja was face-to-face with the medallion at the base of his neck. Since that night it hadn't stopped shaking, she noticed. She took it and pulled it aside to lay a line of kisses along his collarbone. The witcher pressed his face to her hair, breathing warm air onto her scalp.

She could have treated him like dirt, or ignored him entirely, and he'd still be just as enamored as ever with her. So why was she doing this? Why was she caressing his skin? Pressing her lips against him? She only ever used her body, her kisses, as bargaining chips to gain with. But here, her affection was redundant. So why?

 _I have a toy and I'm playing with it_ , she told herself. That was a good explanation. Still wrapped in his arms, Ronja told him, "And when the people at Bremervoord resist us, will you protect your queen?"

"With me life."

"Your life is nice, but I'd much rather you use your swords, witcher." She felt his chuckle vibrate in his chest. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed now." Immediately, his arms dropped from her waist. Ronja moved towards the bed, pulling down and kicking off her breeches. "Let the dog in," she ordered as she unbuckled her belt and removed her blouse. She slipped into the covers just as she heard the shrill whistle and the frantic pattering of paws. Aegis barreled into the room and jumped onto the foot of the bed. Ronja settled her head into the pillow and closed her eyes. She felt her witcher climb in behind her, wrapping an arm protectively over her.

* * *

Darkness had just started to creep in when the cat eyes opened and the witcher stared out into the ocean. The horizon was bare, but he knew it wouldn't be like that for long. They were coming at sunset.

He heard the footsteps, followed by the third clunking of a staff, approach him from behind. Without rising or turning his head, Kozin asked, "Are we ready?"

"Everyone has been evacuated to the castle," the croaky voice replied. Kozin felt the dock shake every time that staff came down. "Perhaps we ought to set defensive measures," the old mage behind him suggested. "Summon a whirlpool to bring the ship down. Have this dock explode on contact. Or set Ring Hexes along the shore." Kozin wasn't sure what those were, but given the sorcerer's inclination towards violent spells they probably weren't anything pretty.

"Don't. Can't risk it," the black-haired witcher replied. _He_ would be with them.

"Oh right, right. Very well," the mage mumbled.

Codren was an interesting one. Even now, Kozin couldn't quite put the mage's personality into words. All he could say was that the old man had an annoying propensity for saying "very well" one too many times.

"You don't have to stay," Kozin told him. He knew not to underestimate the strength of mages, but Codren just looked _so_ helpless with his wispy stature.

"And leave you to face those dastardly cretins all on your own? Oh no, no, _no!_ How could you even suggest that? Bear witchers are odd ones indeed." He said that too many times too. "Did I ever tell you about that other Bear I met in Fornhala? Now, he was a particularly strange one."

"Yes, you've told me." About a thousand times.

"Hmm, well… yes, he was a strange one."

Kozin didn't know how someone could be so collected and so out of it at the same time. As he continued to wonder, he spotted a speck in the horizon that was growing fast. They were here. Kozin rose.

"Oh!" Codren yipped. He squinted his eyes until they completely vanished under his clenched eyebrows. "Here they come."

"We'll confront them in the port, not out here," Kozin said as he walked off the dock. The ground clunked as the mage followed him. "Stay in the back and don't let them near you. I'll need your support."

"Very well." The mage hurried ahead of him into the port city. Kozin strolled leisurely, giving one last glance at the approaching ship that was still far out in the sea. Andryk was on it. Kozin didn't think he'd see his brother again like this.

He passed abandoned stalls, empty of goods save for smelly barrels of fish. Netting lay over crates and in bunched up mounds on the ground. A shell crunched as it was ground to powder under the witcher's boot. He knew what they'd come to Bremervoord port for. All the boxes containing them had been crammed into one storehouse, sealed and protected by Codren's enchantment. If they had come for Bremervoord's livelihood, they'd have to fight for it.

The ground thundered like an oncoming stampede when they landed. The emptiness of the port must have confused them, because Kozin felt their footsteps slow as they entered the port. He drew his last pull from the pipe when they came around the corner to find the witcher sitting on a crate, the only soul in sight amongst the deserted buildings.

Pirates, looking just as ugly and ferocious as he imagined. The crowd before him could have made a troll look like a prince. They glared at him with their metal-lined scowls that the witcher returned with an apathetic stare. Then, he parted his lips, letting his voice come out soft and low.

"Last chance," he told them as he tipped the tobacco ash onto the ground, "to walk away with your lives and drink another day. If you don't take that chance, I promise I will have you bleeding on the ground."

They continued to regard him with their hideous glowers. Kozin wondered why they hadn't charged at him like rabid dogs already. It was almost as if they were waiting on something. Then he heard a voice he didn't at all expect from the faces confronting him.

"Witcher," a woman's voice purred, both rough and silky. She emerged, a diamond amongst the dirt. Kozin was amazed how much he could glean about her at first glance. She was beautiful, and the tantalizingly low blouse collar told of her sultry nature. Her scabbard, hitched at the hip, was strategically angled for a smooth draw and suggested that it was more than just for show. The circlet on her head, with its skull pendant matching the emblem on the flag, was worn like a crown. So this was the Pirate Queen.

"Your Majesty," Kozin replied, sweeping his arms out. Without rising, he gave a bow that had an air of mockery. "Humbled am I to be in your presence."

"Enough with the bullshit, yellow eyes. You're in our way." Apparently she wasn't going to play along with his fun.

"'Fraid I'm not moving," Kozin replied. "And I wouldn't advise any of you lads trying to get past me. Not if you want to keep what's inside of you inside of you."

"Charming theatrics," the Pirate Queen mused, placing a hand on her tilted hip. "Save the bluffs for gwent, witcher. You're outmatched. But let's make things a little more interesting." With her other hand, she waved someone over. Kozin watched the crowd shift as someone came through.

A witcher emerged to take his place next to the Pirate Queen. He glared solemnly at Kozin. The black-haired witcher knew it would eventually come to this, but he feigned shock by jumping up to his feet.

 _"Andryk?"_

"So you know him?" The Pirate Queen ran a hand down her witcher's arm. "I came across him in An Skellig, and since then he's been nothing but useful to me."

"So you're going to pit us against each other?" Kozin asked through clenched teeth.

"No. Andryk, kneel." He did as the Pirate Queen ordered. She suddenly drew her saber and held it at his throat. "Last chance," she told Kozin, "to get out of our way." He glowered at her for a second, and then stepped out of the way. "And tell that sorcerer to step out here, too." Louder, she said, "Hear me, old man?"

She was sharper than he'd expected, Kozin had to admit. Codren stepped out compliantly. "What are you doing, boy?" the mage cried. "Snap out of it!"

"Gag him," the Pirate Queen ordered to two of her men. They rushed forward to obey. "Hands behind your head, witcher."

"As you wish, your Majesty." As Kozin rested his hands on the back of his skull, he bent two fingers on one to form Axii. His eyes focused on a pirate that stood behind the Queen.

"Good," the Pirate Queen purred. "Go on, boys—." Her command broke off when a pirate grabbed her hair and yanked her back. She hit the ground, saber still clutched in her hand. The pirates clamored with angry confusion, and the gargantuan man seized the guilty pirate by the neck.

"No!" the Pirate Queen snapped as she pushed herself off the ground. "It was that witcher! Kill him!" The hounds were let loose. Kozin drew his steel sword. Codren uttered deeply and thumped his staff, and the two men that had tried to gag him were instantly piles of sizzling ash.

They were on him in a flash. Kozin parried blades and slashed flesh. He killed a handful of men, but found himself quickly losing ground. The Queen was right. There were too many for him to face head on. Kozin dodged the sword of another pirate and fluidly stabbed him through the chest. Then, he backed away, careful to not let the mob surround him. "Codren!" he roared.

"Very well!" the mage shouted back. Kozin wrapped himself in a Quen shield just as a powerful shockwave exploded, throwing men out in a ring. Kozin saw Andryk keep the shockwave away from the Queen with his own Quen shield.

He needed to cut the head off of the snake. Kozin ran past the winded men that were struggling to get back onto their feet. Codren was already there, using magic to infiltrate Andryk's mind and attempt to undo whatever the Queen had done to him.

The Queen didn't appear to be too pleased with losing control of her pet. "Get away from him, old man!" she hissed, bringing the saber down. The mage saved himself by raising his staff and letting the blade hit the wood instead. The Pirate Queen wrenched her saber out and prepared for another strike.

Aard pulsed from Kozin's palm and knocked the woman off of her feet. Kozin stopped beside the mage, flipping his blade and holding it poised by his head. He could tell that the old mage was starting to tire.

A pirate came up from behind them, swinging an axe. Codren knocked it aside with the bottom end of his staff and brought the gnarled, knobby end down to the pirate's face. It shot out what appeared to be a strong gust of wind, which dissolved and peeled away the pirate's face to the skull like acid.

That last spell drained the old mage. The tip of the staff sunk deep into the ground as Codren caught himself from stumbling.

"Get out of here!" Kozin told him, parrying a strike from the Pirate Queen.

"But—!"

"Damn it all, you old fool! I said get out of here!" Kozin roared. The mage gave in, disappearing in a crackle of light. It was a simple, short-distance teleport, but it was enough to take him away from danger. Kozin turned back just in time to be able to evade another strike from the Queen. She was fast, dangerously fast. A speedy opponent always spelled difficulty for the strong-attacking Bear.

His next wide swing had the woman ducking his arm and rising up behind him. He felt the saber tip stab into the crack of his armor at his shoulder with expert precision. Fortunately, the blade was stopped by the thick chainmail underneath. Kozin whirled around with a swiftness his opponent didn't expect and knocked the blade aside with a wide sweep of his arm.

The Pirate Queen brought the saber up, aiming the point for his chin. Kozin parried the thin blade with ease. He saw three pirates coming to rush in and protect their queen—one on the left and two on the right. The ones from the right reached him first. Kozin deflected an attack from them, and another from the one on the left. Quickly, he struck down the pirate on the left and, as the man fell, grabbed his sword. He twirled out of the way of more swords that came at him and brought his own around to cleanly decapitate another foe. Before the head hit the ground, Kozin had thrust the extra sword through the other pirate.

He turned his attention back to the Queen, but more of her men were closing in. The witcher scowled irately. He threw his arm out and swept the air around him with a blast of Igni. The pirates who didn't jump out of the way in time were set alight. Their erratic, panicked dances and screams sent fear running through the others.

Kozin turned to the Queen. She glared back, and Kozin practically see the calculations running through her mind. Whatever she was planning, he didn't like it. The witcher quickly advanced on her, not realizing that he was setting her scheme into motion.

The Pirate Queen's demeanor changed in an instant. She backed away from him, holding the sword in front of her like a frightened novice. Suddenly, she stumbled and fell back. Kozin didn't see anything on the ground she could have tripped on. As she fell, she let out a cry. And like a whistle, that cry summoned her pet.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye but couldn't do anything in time. Andryk tackled him and sent him sprawling on the ground. Pulling his senses back together, Kozin grabbed his sword and clambered up to his feet. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Don't ye fuckin' touch her!" Andryk growled, an identical steel sword in his hand.

"Open your eyes! It's me!"

"I can see that, Ko. I'm not here for ye. I'm here fer me queen. Give her what she wants."

"You idiot!" Kozin barked. "What's wrong with you? Do you think you're in love? Look at your chest!" He thrust a finger towards Andryk's medallion. "She's nothing but a crooked, backstabbing witch!"

The red-haired witcher scowled. "Ye'll die fer that!" He flew forward with a flash of steel. Kozin rushed to meet him, and their swords collided with a deafening shriek. The blades trembled in a tense stalemate as equal forces pushed against each other. Kozin heard the boom of an explosion and knew that the pirates were trying to break into the sealed storehouse. Codren's enchantment wouldn't stand up for long, having only been prepared a few hours prior.

Andryk quickly changed footing, letting the edges of the blades grind together as he stepped to the side and pushed Kozin off. The black-haired witcher followed up with a blast of Aard, which cracked uselessly against a Quen shield. All the while, the explosions in the background continued.

Again the blades swung and collided in a series of blurred attacks and parries. It was a wonder sparks didn't fly from the fierce, biting metal. Each clash sent bone-rattling tremors all the way down to Kozin's shoulders, but he had long since learned to ignore the pain.

Finally, the tremors that followed the next explosion told Kozin that the storehouse had given away. The boxes were wide open for the taking, and he couldn't do anything to stop them. Andryk was keeping him right where he stood. All that witcher training was being used for the wrong reason.

"That's the last of it!" Kozin heard the Pirate Queen call out. "Back to the ship!" Before following the train of pirates returning to the dock, she told Andryk, "Finish him off and return to me."

"Aye, my queen." Andryk suddenly threw out Aard and knocked Kozin through the wall of a shop. As he lay in the crushed rubble and splintered wood, he saw the red-haired witcher come up above him, sword raised. The steel plunged down.

It sank into the debris under Kozin's arm. He looked up at his brother's face. Andryk winked. Kozin gave him a little nod. Andryk pulled the blade out and hurried out of the shop to rejoin the pirates. Kozin sat up and rubbed his aching back.

* * *

 _I put you under my spell_

 _Follow me to nowhere_

 _Say your prayer in my church_

 _I'm gonna be your bad tonight_

"Under My Spell"—Jonathan Buchanan & Michael Lister


	29. Chapter 29 - Love, Abuse, and Wine

_**Well, we'll just have to see who lives long enough to be able to collect those armor sets, won't we?**_

* * *

The black-haired Bear had bitten a sizeable chunk out of her numbers, but that didn't matter—her men were replaceable. The important thing was that they had gotten what they came for. She had the navigator direct the ship towards Hindarsfjall and a message sent out to one of the sister ships. They were to meet at Hindarsfjall and restock the Palanquin's crew.

"Me queen," the navigator began nervously. "I'm meanin' no disrespect but… I'm sure _he'll_ be hearin' o'this. Don't think he'll be rightly pleased o'er tha news."

Fear touched her heart just briefly before the Pirate Queen stifled it out. "What does it matter?" Ronja objected sharply. "This is my problem. He doesn't need to get involved." The navigator silently dipped his head in a respectful nod. Ronja left the wheel and descended down to the hold, where some of the men were still crowded around the boxes. "Let me see," she ordered. They parted obediently and let her through. She came up to the stacked boxes. The lid of the topmost crate had been removed, and from within its lined interior glimmered hundreds of raw pearls. Ronja ran her hand over them, feeling their round, glassy surfaces. She brought up a handful and let them sift through her fingers.

"Well done, boys," she praised. "I say we gave them a few months to rebuild and fish up some more of these. Then we'll pay them another visit."

"Won't they be expectin' us now?"

"I imagine their defenses will be a lot stronger. Does it matter?" She found a pearl that was about the size of a human eye and lifted up to admire it. After pocketing it, Ronja turned and came back up onto the deck. It was about 24 hours since the raid. Things were going well, she thought. There was no reason for _him_ to be displeased. Sure, she lost a few men, but the raid was successful. Ronja glanced over to the starboard side. Andryk was leaning on the rail, idling around until he received the next orders from his queen. She paused for a spell to watched the wind tousle his red mane.

Then she heard a pirate approach her. She recognized the footsteps of someone bringing bad news. "What is it?" she demanded before he had a chance to address her.

"The, uh… your Majesty, the… uh, pearls…"

Ronja whirled around, her eyes flashing dangerously. "What about them?"

"They… changed."

Ronja was prepared to press for an explanation, but decided against it. She likely wasn't going to get any information out of this simpleton aside from what had already come out of his mouth. She marched back down into the hold with the pirate meekly trailing behind her. The angry racket could already been heard from the stairs. When Ronja appeared in the hold, the noise immediately died down. As she walked up to the boxes, she noticed that the men were now avoiding it in a wide semicircle.

Gravel. There was gravel in the lined box. Ronja reached into the box, digging through the pebbles. There were no pearls—there had never been any pearls. Ronja raised a fistful of gravel and let it stream back into the box. The hold was deathly silent. Ronja reached down to her pocket and pulled out the large pearl. It just a rock.

Just a mage and a witcher had been the only things standing between them. She should have suspected. "Clever," she muttered under her breath. "Real clever."

"What is it, your Majesty?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Ronja snapped, throwing the last of the gravel in her hand back with the rest. "This was planned." She turned on her heel, her mind racing. Her hand was still clenched tightly around the rock as she thundered up the steps. "This all seems far too intricately planned. It had to be premeditated. Information was leaked off of the ship." As soon as the words left her mouth, she came to the jarring conclusion.

One of her men voiced her thoughts in an infuriated shout, "We've a traitor in our midst!" Immediately, he jabbed the accusing finger at the quiet man standing on the other side of the deck. "It was the witcher!"

Irritation buzzed within Ronja's chest at the accusation towards her pet, but somewhere deep down, she began to worry. "Don't be ridiculous," she scolded. "Keep that finger to yourself if you want to keep it."

"No one else could have done it, your Majesty," another one piped up.

"I'll be the judge of that," Ronja replied. "He doesn't do anything unless I tell him." But she was going to make damn sure she still had the witcher under her heel. "Andryk, come here." He withdrew from the rail and crossed the deck to where she stood.

Holding out a hand, Ronja ordered, "Give me your medallion."

Andryk grabbed it from his neck and pulled it over his head without any hint of hesitation. He placed it in her expecting palm. Ronja looked down at the Bear head. There was also a piece of what appeared to be a pendant with broken off writing on it. She closed her fingers around it and held it up for her men to see. The bear snarled from between her fingers. "Know what this is, boys?" she announced. "This is a witcher's medallion. They'll fight tooth and nail to protect it. So long as a man calls himself a witcher, he'll never part with it, much less hand it away like a simple trinket." She let it drop from her hand, letting the chain snag around her finger. The Bear medallion and pendant piece jangled against each other as the chain caught them.

She saw their dim eyes follow the medallion like a pendulum. They weren't completely brainless, she knew, and they understand what the medallion in her hand meant. "Andryk," she said sweetly, "your queen would like to keep this. What do you have to say to that?"

"If that's what ye want, ye'll hear no objection from me."

"Hear that, boys? Does anyone still think the witcher did it? Come now—let your queen see you." There wasn't a single pip from the assemblage. Ronja wound the chain, pulling the medallion back into her hand. "This witcher has more loyalty to his queen than the whole of you lot combined. _Well?"_ Her fierce eyes scanned the silent crowd. "Let me remind you that we are headed to Hindarsfjall to replenish our numbers, but it seems we might have some cleaning out to do too."

She saw fear, true _fear_ in their faces—in the faces of men who were leagues stronger and viler than her. It brought about in her a dark satisfaction. Ronja ground the medallion in her hand. In one more display of dominance, she turned back to her witcher and asked, "So if this is mine, does that mean I can do with it whatever I please?"

"Aye, me queen."

"Hmm." Ronja suddenly drew her arm back and threw the thing in her hand over the rail. It hit the water with a prominent _plunk_. She heard the witcher inhale sharply, but he said nothing. "And what do you think about that, witcher?"

"If it's the will o'me queen, then I will abide." His voice sounded tense. Understandable.

"Good. You boys could learn something from the witcher." Ronja glared at them, making sure they'd seen. Then she dismissed them and returned to her cabin for the night. Andryk didn't follow her, but stood and stared into the water. Well, he would come in and join her eventually. He always did.

* * *

He gazed down into the water, watching the foamy waves being thrown off of the ship's hull. _His medallion_. It was somewhere down there, swirling through the dark, turbulent water. His heartbeat quickened with rage, and he fought to calm it down with deep breaths. So this was the Pirate Queen, huh? She wasn't just satisfied with having him under her heel, no—she had to grind her boot down into the ground. If she wanted to play like that, he was done with her games.

Andryk stepped away from the rail and headed to her cabin, where he knew she'd be waiting for him. He could see the light seeping out from the seams of the double doors. The men guarding her doors didn't even give him a second glance.

He found her sitting at her vanity. She was wiping a damp cloth over her face and neck. The sight of her conjured up the memory of what she had just done. Infuriated, Andryk fought to keep his footsteps level and slow as he approached her.

"Andryk," she greeted, rising to her feet. He came up behind her, running his hands up her arms. She leaned back into him as he glided over her shoulders. Then, his hand tightened on the back of her neck. Andryk suddenly slammed her down onto the vanity, letting the full extent of his anger manifest. With his other hand, he held her wrist with a crushing grip.

"Don't shout," he growled.

"I won't." Her quiet voice shook. Andryk realized her entire body was shaking. He caught the sight of her frightened, wet face in the vanity mirror and realized what this seemed like to her. Shocked and disgusted at himself, Andryk quickly stepped back. Ronja fell from the vanity onto the ground as though all of her strength had left her. Gasping, she dragged herself away from him and pulled herself up along the wall.

"H-how dare you?" she snapped, though her voice broke.

She could play the scared girl all she wanted. Andryk was done with her illusions. He seized her by the neck and threw her down. He stepped one foot over her and flipped her onto her stomach. With a cord of rope, he wound three tight loops around her wrist and secured them with a knot. He yanked the sheets from the bed and fastened her ankles with them. Eerily, Ronja didn't protest the entire time. Only when Andryk stood back up and stepped away from her did she speak. Her tone was quiet and brooding as she asked, "How long have you been aware? Since Bremervoord?"

"'Fore that, even." Andryk replied.

"How?"

"I got friends."

There was a pause. "Do you want a congratulations for that?"

"Magical friends," Andryk clarified quickly, thinking back to that croaky, weird, old codger. Before they'd parted ways at Fornhala, Codren had been adamant that the witcher depart with an ovular amulet. Andryk had been resistant to the idea at first. Then the mage explained that the amulet would help ward off any spells directed at him. The old codger had also added a cheeky comment about how Andryk sorely needed that kind of help, as magic wasn't the witcher's strong suit. It also, apparently, was a 'talking stone,' allowing the two sides to communicate with one another, but Codren hadn't mentioned that in Fornhala. Andryk found that out on his own when he was abruptly awoken in the middle of the night by that croaky old voice asking how he and Aegis were doing.

"So Bremervoord really was caused by you."

"Aye. Mighty thankful te ye fer defendin' me. Can't say the same about what ye did te me medallion." Again, anger coursed through him. He sat at the vanity, plopping his boots on its tabletop. Andryk refused to look at her, instead staring at the toe of his boot.

"Andryk—."

"I'd appreciate it if ye shut yer pretty lil'mouth, darlin'. Don't wanna hear anythin' from ye, and don't really have anythin' te say te ye. Soon as we reach Hindarsfjall in the morn, I'll be gone and outta this stinkhole." Andryk grimaced as he breathed in the densely perfumed air.

"You were pretending all this time?"

Andryk didn't respond. He took a flask from his belt and unscrewed the cap. The sharp stench of juniper ale overpowered the sickening perfume. Andryk tipped his head back and took a generous swig of the stuff. Leave it to old Junie to be his reliable little crutch at times like these.

"It felt real." Her words bothered him, though he urged himself not to feel.

"First time was real," Andryk admitted, wiggling the flask in his hand and feeling the liquid inside swish. "First few minutes, I couldn't even control how I _felt_. It was terrifyin'. Then me own little parlor trick kicked and started fizzlin' yers out. Rest o'the time, I was on the radgest high I've ever been on." He remembered the complete numbness he had been engulfed in, that blissful delirium. It had really ramped up the experience. His eyes fell on that damned bottle. "Ye know, I think I might take that with me." He was joking of course. Euphoric high or not, he already had more magical items on his person than he liked.

"You can't," Ronja said. Not once had her voice changed from that maddeningly soft tone. "I'll lose control of this ship."

"I don't see any reason I should care."

"Andryk." Her voice grew stiff. "Do you know what it's like to be a woman in my world?"

"Let's see." The witcher leaned back on the chair, tilting his head back to down another gulp from his flask. "From what I've experienced, it's like bein' a cold, cruel bitch who basks in every opportunity te grind someone under her heel. That sound about right?"

"That's not—."

"True? What about this then?" Andryk pulled his boots back down and swiveled in his chair to finally face her. He tapped his bare neck. "If that wasn't a sadistic display o'power, then I don't know what it was!"

Ronja stared at him for a second, and then lifted her head to nod towards her waist. "My back pocket," she said. "Right-hand one. Check it."

"I'm not touchin' ye."

"I didn't throw your medallion out."

Against his better judgment, Andryk rose to his feet. The possibility that his medallion wasn't lost drew him to approach her. As he crouched down, he warned, "Try anythin' and I'll kill ye."

"I already know I've lost," Ronja replied, turning her head as Andryk tilted her body to reach her pocket. The medallion really was there. And the pendant piece too. Andryk raised it to his face, turning it around to inspect it. "It's the real deal."

"Then what did ye throw? I heard it."

"A rock," Ronja answered. "One that some of my crew died for."

Andryk still didn't understand. "What the hell was the point?" He was sure this was just another one of her manipulations—a way to lure his trust. But that didn't make sense either. At the time, Ronja had still believed that the witcher was under her spell. She wouldn't need to keep the medallion as insurance then.

"I couldn't bring myself to throw it out," Ronja said. "I wasn't trying to punish _you_ , but I needed to show the men out there what the Pirate Queen was willing to do."

"Ye make her sound like an alter ego."

"In a way, she is." Ronja shifted herself back onto her side. "Can you at least put me up on the bed? The ground hurts and it's cold."

Andryk obliged, but only because he didn't want to become heartless. She was his hostage, after all, and was at his mercy. And some intrusive part of his mind didn't want to hurt her. Andryk was worried that maybe her perfume was starting to ensnare him again, but it shouldn't have. The amulet was still protecting him.

He lay her down as he'd done many times before while playing the role of a lover, but this time he immediately backed away and returned to the chair. The flask was at his lips, and he felt the comfortable burn of ol'Junie going down his gullet. But the silence was unbearable, so he asked, "Why couldn't ye throw it out?"

"I don't know."

"Don't tell me that. Ye've always got a reason fer everything."

"Even if I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

There was a long pause. Then, the Pirate Queen said, "I think I love you."

This time, it's Andryk's turn to become speechless. He took another gulp from the flask and forced it down. "Ye think?"

"I don't know what it is. A woman like me isn't allowed to be loved. But like I said, you felt real. Sometimes I forgot I had you under a spell. Other times I pretended you weren't."

The woman he was talking to wasn't Ronja the Pirate Queen. But Andryk wasn't sure if she had put on a mask or taken one off. Given her nature, Andryk opted for the former option. She'd told him too many lies for him to believe her anymore.

"I know you, the real you, hates me," Ronja continued. "Especially since you were aware at Bremervoord."

"Ye mean when ye had that damned blade at me throat? Aye, ye've got a real talent fer makin' people feel expendable."

"I wasn't going to do it, even if he didn't move. He was bluffing his toughness, but so was I." She gave a breathless, desperate laugh. In a whisper, she said, "That's all the Pirate Queen is. A bluff." Andryk looked at her. Ronja's eyes were gazing at something far away, unseen. "I asked you before: do you know what it's like to be a woman in my world? I'll give you the gist of it—if the Pirate Queen wasn't the way she is now, she'd be in the hold, chained like livestock and used like an object."

"So ye chain others in yer place instead?" Andryk said bitterly. Ronja's eyes met his. He saw genuine confusion in their glassy surfaces. "A witcher, fer instance. Ye tried te chain _him_ down and use _him._ "

"I…" She sounded like a puzzled child trying to defend herself. "I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"Ye think that's what made it all okay?"

"I cared about you."

Andryk could tell she honestly couldn't tell the difference. It baffled him that Ronja couldn't understand physical shackles and chains from metaphorical ones. And what was she going on about, talking about _caring?_ How could she equate using someone for pleasure and profit to _caring?_

He heard it again—the grandmaster's voice. _The behavior of an individual is oftentimes the product of their upbringing_. Undevar had told them that multiple times to explain the importance of training and discipline during their young lives.

Andryk took another swig from the flask, reflecting on the grandmaster's words. _The product of their upbringing…_ He thought about how Ronja couldn't differentiate between love and abuse, about how she reacted so unlike her usual self when he had pinned her down against the vanity, and then he understood. The witcher couldn't bring himself to hate the Pirate Queen anymore. He could only pity her.

Out of habit, Andryk swished the flask around to gauge the volume of the ale left. The sound of liquid slapping the sides was depressingly loud. He wondered how many swigs were left. Not enough to get him drunk and dull out these negative thoughts churning in his head.

"Bottom drawer of the dresser," he heard Ronja suddenly murmur.

"What?"

"There's a bottle of wine in the bottom drawer of the dresser," Ronja repeated, nodding towards it. "I got it a few years back. Was saving it for a special occasion." She rested her head back on the pillow. "I guess being held hostage in my own room is special enough."

When he slid the drawer open, Andryk did indeed find a bottle of wine tucked in the back against a bundle of linen. The gold foil around the cap was still pristine. Andryk looked at the label around the bottle, noting that it had come from a very top-notch and costly winery. Andryk was tempted, but despite the untouched foil, he didn't trust it just as he didn't trust her. He rose, closing the drawer with his foot. The foil was peeled off and the cork was popped out as he walked over to the bed. Andryk slid a hand under Ronja's shoulders and sat her up.

"Ye first," he told her, holding the bottle in front of her.

Ronja glanced up at him. "Is this out of chivalry or out of suspicion?"

"What do ye think?"

Ronja let out a gentle huff and opened her mouth. Andryk put the lip of the bottle against hers and tilted it enough to give her a sip of its contents. The spiced wine did smell inviting.

"It's nice," Ronja sighed, "but not as strong as I need it to be." She leaned her head against him. Andryk realized his hand was still resting over her shoulder. Out of reflex, he felt repulsed. But something else battled against that repulsion. Andryk was too afraid to name that opposing feeling, even in his head. He drew away from her and sat down at the vanity. Setting the bottle down, he returned the flask to his hand.

"So what happened te ye?" he asked, allowing curiosity to get the better of him. Ronja looked at him inquiringly. Andryk gestured a hand towards her. "How'd ye get te be like this, huh? How'd ye become the Pirate Queen?"

Ronja laughed spitefully. "I'm not drunk enough to talk about it," she replied. She jerked her head towards the bottle of wine. "Can I have that first?"

"I'm not about te feed it te ye."

"And I haven't lost enough of my dignity to let you do that." She looked at him expectantly.

Andryk scoffed. "Ye think I'll untie ye? Fuck no."

"Just my arms. I won't try anything."

"Oh, I believe ye." Andryk took another swig of ale.

"What can I do? Untie my legs? I wouldn't have even reached the knot, and you'd have me skewered at the end of your sword. My perfume is out of reach, too. And if you think I've got a dagger, you can frisk me. Besides, your armor's too thick for any assassin's dagger." The witcher still didn't move. "Andryk, I just want some wine."

He remained motionless, thinking on her words. She was right—Ronja couldn't outmatch a witcher's reflexes. And sitting in her bed, she was defenseless. Andryk had gone through the mattress thoroughly enough during one of his "naps" to know there was nothing for her to use aside from the pillow. Still, Andryk was worried that maybe this was another one of her tricks. Maybe she was luring him into a false sense of security.

Well, so long as he remained vigilant, everything should be fine. And if things took a turn for a worse, well… he was sure he could handle it. Andryk went over to untie Ronja's hands and give her the bottle. She leaned back against the wall, gripping the wine bottle by the neck.

"You sure you don't want any?" she offered to Andryk. The witcher sat on the edge of the bed a generous length away from her. In response, he raised his own flask and took a drink from it. "You still don't trust me." Ronja tipped the bottle back, and didn't lower it down for a while. Andryk watched the up-down motion of her throat, feeling newfound guilt at the stirring it gave him. He looked down, tapping his finger gently on the rim of his flask.

"Who are you, witcher?"

Andryk looked up. Ronja was watching him, cradling the bottle against her chest. "What?"

"Who are you? Tell me who you are."

Andryk shrugged. He brought the flask up to mouth, feeling his lips brush against it as he said, "I'm a witcher from the School of Bear," he answered before lifting the flask up.

"Who were you before becoming a witcher."

"Why are ye askin'?"

Ronja shrugged, looking down at her bottle. "I guess I just need something to listen to while I down this." Andryk's eyes flickered down to the bottle. He could see through the tinted glass that already a third of it was gone.

Andryk considered her request for a second. He never talked about himself. His brothers at the keep only knew vaguely about his past, and anyone he met on the Path never bothered asking. "Ye sure yer not goin' te use this information te get me under yer heel again?"

Ronja lowered the bottle and replied, "And how am I going to do that?" With a sigh, she clamped the bottle between her knees as she rubbed her brow. "Besides, you'd have another parlor trick for me, wouldn't you?" She was downing that bottle at an alarming rate. It was like the Pirate Queen had something inside of her she was trying to drown.

"Don't know what te tell ye," Andryk said, shifting around to sit against a bed post. "I can't remember much. All I know is that me ma died gettin' me inte this world. And me da…" Andryk scowled at the memory of that man. "A rotten core under a shiny shell."

"Sounds like someone you know." Her words were starting to sound a bit heavy. The wine was almost gone.

"I only have one clear memory. Don't remember how old I was, just knew I was too young te be kicked out o'the house just 'cause me da couldn't fit all his nightly 'guests' onte one bed. Was pissin' down rain, and I was soaked te me bones like a stray. I was crawlin' inte a crate when the lass must've spotted me. Asked me if I was a vagrant—I told her nay, just waitin' for me da te finish up and let me back inte the house. She took me and led me te a big ol'place, smelled real strong and made me dizzy. Dried me up and took me te the nearby tavern te feed me. I asked her if I needed te give her somethin' back, 'cause me da never let me have anythin' without expectin' somethin' back. I remember she looked mighty confused, and then told me not te worry 'bout anythin'. After that, she told me she had te go. I had te go home too—me da would get mad if I stayed out too long. Then the lass knelt down and gave me a hug. It was the first time someone touched me without it bein' a hit or a shove. I cried like the wee bairn I was."

Andryk paused to take another swig of ale. His flask was nearly empty. "A few weeks later, a witcher found me an took me away. Never looked back, never wanted te. Shortly after setting off onte the Path, I went back te that place te look fer that lass. Couldn't find her, but I found out some things about her. She'd been a whore, and the smelly place she took me te was the bawdy house she worked at. Always had respect fer womenfolk because o'what she did fer me, but that respect grew when I found out who she was. I know enough about those lasses te know their lives aren't all sunshine like they get ye te think. And then this one—she finds a little scrap o'a boy in the rain and goes out o'her way te make sure he's dry. Wish I could'a seen her again, thanked her."

He raised the flask again, but lowered it without taking a drink. He could hold his alcohol well, but the ale was strong and he'd rather not get drunk around Ronja. She, on the other hand, was hugging the empty bottle to herself and leaning back against the wall. "That's so sweet." Her voice was heavily slurred. "Wish I could have met her."

 _I don't. You and her are very different women_ , Andryk thought. Ronja dropped her arms to her sides and let the bottle fall down onto the bed. "What about ye, Pirate Queen? Ye ready te open up?"

Ronja giggled. "Open up? Oh, I'll open up for you, witcher." She laughed again as she fell onto her side. Ronja was completely pissed, and Andryk was a little startled. It didn't feel right to him that he had her tied up when she was so vulnerable, and so he pulled the sheets off of her legs. As he stood over her, Ronja looked up at him expectantly, her hands fumbling at her blouse. Then they disappeared as Andryk draped the sheet over her. "What are you doing?"

"My turn. Who are ye?" Andryk asked, settling at the bedpost again. The sheets shifted and morphed as Ronja rolled onto her side. Andryk saw the outline of her hips and legs among the lines.

"Who am I?" Ronja muttered, nestling her hands under the pillow. "I'm the Pirate Queen, you silly man."

"Ye know what I mean," Andryk said. He grabbed her ankle and gave it a little shake. "Who were ye before ye were a pirate queen?"

"Well, I was just a plain ol'pirate," Ronja replied. "And before that, I was a jarl's daughter."

Andryk paused. "Come again?"

"My father was the jarl of Kaer Bheinn of Undvik. Could still be… no, I doubt he's still around," Ronja sighed. "I remember those days well. I was happy. And then… one day…" Her voice trailed off. Andryk looked over and realized she was crying. Trails of black were running across her face. He turned away, running a hand through his hair and squeezing it. This could very well be another one of her tricks just to disarm him. He couldn't put it past her to still be like that, even in this state.

But at the same time, he was unable to stop his heart from being crushed at the sound of her tears. Something was wrong with him, Andryk knew. He'd known for a while—ever since it had started becoming easier and easier to pretend to be in love. _I'm all fucked up_.

"Then what?"

Andryk felt the covers move. He dropped his hand to see that Ronja had pulled them off. She sat up and crawled towards him. Without thinking, Andryk opened his arm for her to nestle against his side. She curled up against him, gripping a strap on his chest with tense fingers. Andryk wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She was shaking again. He wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her closer.

"I was playing on the beach," Ronja continued in a tiny voice, "attended by a maid and two guards. I was 13, collecting shells I think. Then the maid screamed because she saw one of the guards being murdered. By the time I turned around the other one was dead, and _he_ had his sword going through the maid. I shrieked because I thought he was going to do the same to me. I ran, only for a few steps, and he had me by the hair. Instead of killing me, he whisked me onto his ship."

Ronja pulled herself up against Andryk, huddling her forehead against his neck. "Since then I've wished he had just killed me on that beach." The witcher didn't realize he was holding his breath as he listened. "For a few weeks, they kept me in the hold. My wrists were tied together the whole time. Men would come down and force me to service them. Only with my mouth—they kept me preserved for _him_. And when he was ready to have me as a pet, he pulled out of that hold.

"He kept a rope around my neck, made me crawl on my hands and knees. He had me eat from the ground. If I made him mad, he would kick me. But then he would apologize and tell me he was just trying to help me learn because he loved me. He would always tell me that, and he would always tell me I was beautiful. I remember what he said to me—he said that one day, when my body became beautiful too, he would make me into a woman. I didn't know what he meant."

Andryk finally remembered to breathe, sucking in air between his clenched teeth. "When I turned 16, I found out. It hurt, but I couldn't cry because crying made him mad. And I thought he didn't mean to hurt me because he cared about me—he always said so. Afterwards, he asked me if I wanted to be his queen. I thought that meant he really did love me, so I said yes.

"And now I am the queen. The men that serve under me—they're no different from the ones that came down to the hold. They're disgusting, the lot of them. That's why they're expendable to me. That's why I feel no remorse for the lives lost at Bremervoord." Ronja finally lifted her face. Andryk used the side of his thumb to wipe the dark lines on her face.

"It's not love, is it?" she asked. "There never was, was there? Just like the pearls."

It was easier, simpler, to call her evil and hate her. Maybe he still ought to. But he couldn't bring himself to now. "Who?" Andryk asked her. "Who did this te ye?"

Ronja shook her head. "Anyone who knows of him knows better than to go mentioning him. It draws him like a warm, stormy wind," she said with a hollow laugh. She gave Andryk's chest a little pat. "So you better not go around saying it, okay?" She rested a hand against the side of her face. "Can't even hold my head up straight." Ronja pulled away from Andryk, but he held onto her.

"Why don't ye leave? Run away?" Andryk asked her.

"You really are a silly man, aren't you?" Ronja replied, clumsily trying to peel the witcher's hands away. Andryk let her go. She scooted back to the pillow and laid her head down. "I can't. You won't let me go anywhere, remember?" She giggled again.

"I can help ye leave."

"I'm trapped."

"By him?"

She didn't reply. "Ronja—."

"Karina." At the witcher's silence, she continued, "That was my name."

Andryk looked down at his flask, and then tossed his head back to empty it. _Fuck_ , he was supposed to hate her! He rose to his unsteady feet and walked to the vanity. Staring at his reflection, he said, "Karina?"

"… Yes?"

"I… I love ye."

"I don't believe you."

* * *

 _And to the girl's surprise_

 _Something in his eyes_

 _Beckons her to know him, and inspires her to say_

 _I want to know your story_

 _I want to know your past_

 _So tell me slowly from the start_

 _Leave out no detail_

 _Savor every part_

"One Thousand and One Nights"—Team Starkid


	30. Chapter 30 - Unwanted Attention

Once again, Andryk found himself being woken up by knocks on the door. His senses rose out of his sleepy murk to smell the odor of musty wood and hear the creaking of strained planks. Through the hull, he heard the slap of water on the side of the ship along with the knocking. He found himself going through a moment of déjà vu. Only this time, the knocking was gentle.

Andryk saw his slumped reflection in the mirror and realized he had fallen asleep at the vanity. His eyes followed a line that zigzagged from the perfume bottle on the tabletop to the sleeping form on the bed. The knocking hadn't woken her, as all she did was stir a little. She was going to be out of commission for a while, he figured. Last night had been rough to her. Andryk rose to answer the knocking. He cracked the door open just enough to peer outside. The slice of light that cut into the cabin was starkly bright.

The face he saw on the other side was one of the larger pirates, one of the queen's "muscle." By contrast to his knocking, his face immediately became callous and hostile to Andryk's appearance. "Where's tha Cap?" he demanded, placing a large, rough hand on the door to pull it open wider. The witcher's grip kept it in place.

"Sleepin'," Andryk answered. "Ye can deliver the message through me."

The pirate's sourer expression told Andryk that he didn't exactly savor the idea. "Ain't tellin' ya shite," he snarled. "Now wha've ye done te tha Cap?"

Andryk allowed the door to inch open just enough for the pirate to see the shape on the bed. From his side, Andryk could see the landscape of Hindarsfjall. The pirate still didn't seem satisfied, as their little tug-of-war on the door grew in intensity. "I ain't talkin' te one'a her dogs," he insisted bitingly. "I talk te tha queen m—."

"For fuck's _SAKE!"_ came the roar from the bed. "Get that light out of here, or I'll have you hanging by your _innards_ from the mast!"

The whitening of the pirate's face told Andryk that perhaps there was a history behind her threat. The burly man mumbled an apology over the witcher's shoulder, and then told Andryk in a sharp whisper, "Tell tha queen we've arrived." He quickly stepped back and pushed the door shut himself.

Andryk turned back just as she sat herself up, her movements painstakingly stiff. She pressed a palm firmly against her face as she slipped her legs off the bed. Andryk hurried over to help her up. To his surprise, she pushed him away.

"You don't have to keep pretending!" she snapped, stumbling over to the vanity and leaning heavily on it.

"I ain't pretendin'." He followed her as she sank heavily into the chair. "Yer in no condition te be hobblin' around. Go back te bed."

"We're here, aren't we?" Ronja groaned, her arms lying over the vanity.

"Aye."

She leaned her head down onto her arms. "You're leaving." It was a statement. Andryk didn't say anything. It was true—he promised himself he wasn't going to spend another second on the ship as soon as they docked. For the longest time, he had yearned for this moment. But now, for some maddeningly strange reason, he was hesitant. Maybe it was because of the sadness in her voice as Ronja said, "I don't want you to go, Andryk. You were the only good thing in my life."

Andryk knelt down to be level with her, but she had her face still buried in her arms. "Look at me," he said. She slowly lifted her head. Andryk placed a hand under her chin as he held her gaze. "I don't want te go either," he told her. "Because truth be told, I've gone and put me head up me arse and fallen fer ye too. All that actin', that cutesy bullshite that reminded me o'me mate Os, has gone and fuddled up me brain." His hand slid up to her cheek. "But I can't be a pirate. I can't do what ye do. And I was plannin' te stop ye, with me sword even. But god damn it, I can't even bring meself te do that either."

Ronja laid a hand over his, pressing it against her face. "Don't love me."

"Why?"

"You were right, Andryk. I killed that witcher. Not because he threatened me, but because I was made to. By _him_."

"Who?"

Ronja didn't answer, which told Andryk everything. "Leave with me. Leave him behind." He saw the refusal in her eyes, and saw her mouth open to voice it. "He doesn't love ye! Ye know that!" He took his hand down and clasped hers tightly. "I know that's what he's been tellin' ye yer whole life, but deep down ye know he's wrong! That's not what love is!"

"Then what is it?"

Hell if Andryk knew, but he blurted it out anyway. "Ye love someone when ye feel safe and important around them. And when ye see them hurtin', ye want te take them away from all the harm and the bad shite. It's more than just a feelin', more than just a promise or a kind word." This was something he could imagine Oslan saying, and the fact that it was coming out of his own mouth was grossing him out a little. But this wasn't the same. This wasn't a fairytale come true. She wasn't his "Arda." She was a woman who had gotten the innocence beaten and raped out of her, and knowing that wrenched at his gut. Maybe he had felt nothing but pity once, but the vulnerability in her eyes as she listened to him told Andryk that maybe he could bring it back.

"Then I love you," she said. "And I'm taking you out of harm's way. Get off of my ship."

"Karina—."

" _Don't_ call me that," she hissed, tearing her hand out of his. "The black smoke draws near, and I want you off and far away from this ship."

"Not without ye."

"Without me." She scraped the chair back and stood. "I'll give you the chance to leave with your dignity. Otherwise, I'll have my men throw you over. Good bye, witcher. It was a pleasure doing business with you."

Andryk stood with her. As Ronja turned away, he grabbed her by the shoulders and faced her towards him again. "An Skellig," he told her. "I'll be there 'til winter. This isn't good bye, ye hear?" He lowered his face and watched through his lashes as she reached up to close the rest of the distance between them. This kiss was different—it sent all kinds of emotions running through him. He'd never appreciated a kiss for anything other than the physical sensation, but now there was this stupid, sappy love involved. And there was also heartbreak looming in the background.

That heartbreak grew as he descended down the ramp. It hurt, this foreign pain, and it wouldn't go away. It still throbbed like a fresh wound on his way to An Skellig after hitching a ride with some merchants. And it still throbbed as he sat in the inn, blind and deaf to the wooing of the serving girls that pinned for the attention he once gave them. The only companion he acknowledged was the tankard in his grip and the circlet that was wound tightly around his fingers. "A keepsake," her voice repeated in his head, "to remind you of the queen you dethroned."

It was close to the end of fall when he saw her again. She appeared out of nowhere like a ghost, sitting at an empty corner in a low hood that covered her face. No pirate ship was spotted at Urialla's Harbor, but he knew it was her the moment in stepped in and saw her. She told him she only had one day, and he replied that it would be enough. They stopped by the counter so he could buy a cask of wine from Simms, which made her laugh. They got a room and ascended upstairs, trailed by the envious eyes of barmaids.

It became it became the hot topic of gossip among them. Most of the girls were disgruntled, but one was intrigued. She came up to him to refill his ale, and then sat next to him. "Noh'iced a lass hurryin' outto the door arlier," Arda began casually. "Didn't catch much o'er face, boot culd tell she was glowin' brigh'er than a lighthoos, she was. A witcher didn't 'appen te make 'er day, did 'e?"

Andryk shrugged. Arda could tell that definitely meant something.

"What's 'er name?"

After a swig, Andryk answered, "Karina."

* * *

He could tell by that stupidly bright look on his face and the way he carried himself—his mate Addie had done the impossible and fallen in love. Kozin, nor any of the other Bears, pried much. They weren't gossipy hens, after all. In fact, the implied news irritated the black-haired witcher a bit as he sat on the dock, puffing on his pipe and waiting for his other brother to return. Speaking of which, Oslan was bringing his wife. And judging by that boyish glee he spotted in the grandmaster's eyes earlier, a certain sorceress was probably staying at the keep for the winter. This island was becoming a cesspool of mushy feelings.

It didn't take the sharp eyes of the grandmaster to be able to read the annoyance off of Kozin's face. "You saying you've never been a victim of nature?" another Bear witcher, one Trial generation under Kozin's, asked. His name was Bodraas, and an identical copy of him—his twin—was somewhere else in the keep.

"You asking if I've ever taken a shit?" Kozin replied dryly.

"You know what I'm talking about, you dafty." Bodraas scratched the side of his head, ruffling his warm auburn hair. Of course, Andryk claimed that the twins' hair color was close, but not true to Skelligan red like his was. "Nature, Freya—whoever designed us, gave us this slinking tendency to fall in love. Has something to do with survival of the offspring or whatever."

"We shouldn't even be able to," Kozin said.

"You mean our desensitization? Kozin, we're not mindless husks. If we want to stay straight and true on the Path, we've got to have some humanity left in us."

"Thanks for the lecture. I'll keep that in mind next time I trot to the bawdy house and wrestle with the urge to propose to the whore."

"Oi, all I'm saying is that the attention is nice. Mate, I'll bet you ten rounds of lager that you're going to find yourself at the center of that kind of attention. And hell, you might even like it."

"Whatever, Baldric." Kozin could tell the twins apart easily, but still often called them by the wrong name on purpose, and Bodraas knew that.

"Fuck off."

* * *

The younger witcher's words came true within the week. Kozin found himself trapped in that attention when Oslan and Arda arrived on the island. They brought with them their daughter.

Matilda was her name, though they called her Tillie for short. Arda insisted on holding her as they stepped out of the boat, though she looked large and awkward in her adopted mother's arms. Once on the sand, Arda lowered her down and let her take her first timid steps on the island. The first thing that rushed up to greet her was an enthusiastic Aegis. The dog stopped and shoved her nose in Tillie's face and neck as she gave the newcomer a thorough sniffing. Tillie froze. Then, she defecated on the ground with a fearful bleat. Matilda, after all, was a lamb.

"Little lass, give the thing some space te breathe!" Andryk scolded as he jogged up to the animals. He grabbed the dog's scruff and pulled her back. Aegis's tongue lolled out as she wheezed excitedly. "Calm yerself down! This isn't prey, ye hear?" Andryk gestured towards Tillie with a hand. "This creature here, this tiny, fluffy, delicious creature, is our friend, aye?"

Oslan gave the red-haired witcher an unamused glare. "I'm more worried about you than the dog," he said. Arda scooped the trembling creature up, murmuring gently as she carried Tillie to the keep. Despite the terrifying introduction to the guild, Tillie soon became relaxed around all of its inhabitants. The gentle giants she encountered would often give her a passing pat on the head, which would send her little tuft of a tail wriggling with delight. She also enjoyed trying to nibble at Undevar's beard at every opportunity. But to one witcher, she became especially attached. Her obsession first became known when she paid him an unexpected visit in the bathing caverns.

In one part of the keep, there was a set of stairs that led deep underground. If one were to descend the steps, they would eventually find themselves in a series of intricately tunneling caverns. According to legend, the tunnels had been dug by sea serpents trying to find their ways back to the water. Of course, more realistically, dwarfs had probably dug the tunnels—the caverns were saturated with dwarven technology. It was their engineering that converted seawater into clean water for the baths. The salt pulled out of the bathwater was ground down and mixed with oils to serve as an exfoliant.

The tunnels narrowed and fanned out, like blood vessels, into 30 individual, gated baths. It was an adequate number to meet the guild's demand for a good washing after a long day of training. His days of grueling through drills and conditioning were long behind him, but Kozin figured he ought to end the day with a bath. The caverns were empty, as most witchers were above gathered in the dining hall for supper.

Kozin stepped into one of the small bathing rooms and closed the small, door-like gate. Immediately, when the lock clicked into place, there came a low rumbling as the bath's filtering system activated. One end of the bath slowly pumped in fresh water while the other end slowly pulled out used water.

He was standing in the warm, waist-deep water, facing the back wall of the room and scrubbing the salt formula through his hair with his head lowered. He didn't even hear anything. Kozin just saw her when he threw his hair back and turned to see her standing at the edge of the bath. Her little mouth was curved into what looked like a smile, and her tail waggled. The witcher stared. The gate was closed. How did she even get in?

"Shoo," Kozin hissed. Tillie didn't move. He splashed a bit of water at her. The lamb shied away and wandered over to the corner where a large salt deposit sat and began licking it. Kozin muttered his irritation under his breath as he turned away and resumed bathing. After a while, he felt eyes on him and turned to see that damned thing staring at him again. "You're fucking weird! Go!" He sent a stronger wave of water at her. Tillie jumped back and retreated to the gate. Kozin saw her slip easily between the grills. She must've been a rat of a thing under all that fluff.

Kozin finished his bath, dressed, and hurried back up to the keep. The dining hall was still lively with witchers finishing their meals or enjoying a few drinks. He found Andryk and Oslan having a lazy round of gwent.

Oslan tossed down a card. "Biting Frost. I win."

"I don't think so. Clear Weather, bitch. _I_ win."

"The fuck? How many of those you got?"

"Enough te counter yer cheating-arse tactics."

Oslan dropped his last card down onto the table in an admittance of defeat. Kozin sat down next to Oslan as the two players gathered their cards back up. "Os," the black-haired witcher mumbled.

"Hmm?" Oslan replied, shuffling his deck.

"Your daughter is a pervert."

"Well that's not very nice," Oslan said. "What do you mean? She's a lamb, in case you didn't notice. Did she eat your knickers or something? It wasn't personal—she eats nearly everything she can reach." He slipped the deck back into its case on his belt and stood. "Gonna go check on Arda. Let's have a few rounds when I get back, aye?"

"Aye," Andryk answered. To Kozin, he said, "Slide up, Ko. Wanna challenge the champion?"

Kozin scooted down the bench to take his place across the red-haired witcher, but already had doubts about winning. Out of the three, Andryk was surprisingly the best at gwent. The rest of the evening was relaxing as Kozin proceeded to lose the game and stew over his defeat with a tankard. The sourness was quickly dropped when the three of them started swapping stories. They were joined by a few other witchers and apprentices.

Oslan's season had been mellow. The inn didn't see much trouble from na Feachd's men, perhaps because of a rumor that Eivend was gearing up to eliminate another one of An Skellig's existing clans. Oslan played guardian of his little hamlet, keeping away any monster or predator that came too near. That's how he came upon Tillie—he'd been tracking the prints of a wolf pack and had discovered the devoured corpse of an ewe. He found the ewe's lamb hiding in the shrubbery a small distance away, wounded with scratch marks. He thought it would make a good pet for their household, but Arda became quite fond of it and began affectionately referring to it as their 'daughter.'

The next story was shared between Andryk and Kozin as they told of how they protected Bremervoord's port from the pirates by tricking them. The tale even snared the attention of the masters and grandmasters. The part where Kozin had a pirate yank the hair of his queen had them all laughing. The masters commended Kozin for his sharp thinking and Andryk for his diligence.

Oddly, Andryk seemed to be reluctant to talk about the Pirate Queen and her crew. Kozin figured Andryk would've loved to tear into her, given his hatred for crooks. He only muttered vague responses into his tankard. Then, Undevar said something that seemed to immediately grab his attention.

"I've never heard of pirates having a queen," the grandmaster noted. "I only knew of their king."

The red-haired witcher's head popped up. "King? They have a king?"

"Aye," Undevar answered, absently twisting a bead in his beard. "I've never met him, only heard of him. And I've never spoken with anyone who has met him, which ought to tell you something. His vessel, if I'm not mistaken, is called The Black Smoke."

Kozin saw a light appear in Andryk's eyes before the red-haired witcher quickly hid his face behind his tankard. He wondered what Andryk was thinking—it looked as though he had realized something.

"Wh—oh, fucking hell!" he heard Oslan shout. He looked down and saw that Aegis had trotted over to the table. In her teeth, she triumphantly held what looked to be a shredded chunk of cloth and stuffing. Kozin saw a button and what seemed to be half a smile sewed onto the chunk. "Addie, your damn mutt ripped up Tillie's doll!"

"She what?" Andryk replied vacantly, rising out of his thoughts.

Oslan reached down and tugged the piece out of Aegis's mouth. "Tillie's doll!" he repeated. "She never goes to sleep without the thing! Now look at it!"

"Real sorry mate," Andryk mumbled, still distracted by something. "Little lass, we don't chew up other people's stuff." The red-haired witcher rose, leaving his half-full tankard behind. Kozin watched him leave, and then turned back to Oslan as he threw the damp chunk of stuffing aside. Aegis quickly snatched it up and began pulling apart tufts of stuffing.

"Just get Theila to patch it up," Kozin suggested.

"Magic can't solve everything," Undevar cut in. "That doll is likely scattered around the keep in a million pieces. I've an old doll in my office you can have." One of the Bears asked why the grandmaster had a doll in his possession, to which Undevar replied, "It's a long story, laddie, and this old man needs to go and get his rest." He was next to leave the hall. Kozin wondered exactly how much rest the grandmaster was getting with Theila around.

* * *

It was clear that Tillie wouldn't accept the new doll. Only two individuals were able to get any amount of sleep that night—the two that had grown accustomed to the lamb's noisiness. Other than Oslan and Arda, everyone else was kept up by her constant bleating. A whole night without sleep was not something that witchers were unfamiliar with, but there was always something especially exhausting about having what should've been a restful night cruelly robbed.

The morning was filled with cranky attitudes from those who did not immediately go back to bed to recover their lost hours. Theila, who had also managed to sleep with her blessedly normal hearing, was asked to recover the doll. She gave a response similar to the grandmaster's answer—that it wasn't as easy as it seemed.

"I'll need all the pieces gathered first," she said. "Or at most of them, at least. And I can't simply 'use magic' to gather them all. I can use a spell to draw the material from all over the keep together, but then I'd also be pulling in every piece of lint that's on this island."

According to Arda, the key to getting Tillie to accept a doll was scent. She spent the rest of the day holding onto the new doll, hoping the scent of Tillie's adopted mother on the doll would calm her down. But then, much to Kozin's dismay, they discovered a better way to soothe the lamb.

She was there again in the bath, with her pinkish nose and innocent little smile. This time, when Kozin splashed at her, she came right back. Obviously the pursuit of love had made her bold. She stuck around to even when he stepped out of the water and circled around his feet as he dried himself with a towel. Andryk and Oslan saw him emerging from the caverns with Tillie close to his heels.

"Ye weren't kiddin'!" Andryk chuckled. When Kozin stopped, Tillie immediately settled herself onto his foot, leaning her head against his shin.

"Look at that," Oslan teased, crouching down to scratch the lamb's ears. "Every father of a lass must see the mournful day when his daughter has her heart stolen."

"Fuck off," Kozin grumbled. This time, it was his turn to say, "She's a lamb."

"Well, maybe it's not love then. Maybe Tillie's just found another doll."

It was Andryk who set the ball rolling when he blurted out, "Well fuck, let her sleep in yer room then!"

 _"What?"_

"Now that's an idea," Oslan agreed.

 _"What?_

"At least until I find enough pieces of Tillie's doll for Theila to put back together into a decent thing," Oslan said. "It'll only be three or four nights."

"It does _not_ take you that long to scrounge up a few pieces of stuffing," Kozin grumbled.

"Well, no," Oslan admitted. "But it's been a while since we've had a room to ourselves, you know. Tillie's slept with us every night since we found her."

"I'm so glad to know that I'm also rescuing your sex life, Os."

"It's not so bad havin' an animal curled up at the foot o'yer bed," Andryk chimed in. "Keeps yer feet warm and all."

Kozin was a little disgruntled at the plan. Aside from women, he'd never shared a bed with anyone or anything. And Tillie, he soon discovered, did not sleep at the foot of the bed. As soon as he settled in for the night, the little lamb hopped up with him and curled up next to his head. She laid her chin on his shoulder. Well this wasn't so bad. In fact, it was rather sweet. And best of all, Tillie didn't make a peep. Kozin folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, they flew open. Kozin stared up at the ceiling with mixed feelings of shock and disbelief. Tillie was sucking on his earlobe.

The witcher turned his head away, hoping that was enough to discourage the bothersome lamb. It wasn't. He felt Tillie worm closer to him. Her lips found his ear and began suckling again. Kozin let out a huff as he sat up. He grabbed the bundled up lamb and dumped her on the ground. Tillie immediately stood up to loudly protest. She placed her front hooves on the edge of the bed. Kozin pushed her off. Her wailing grew louder.

Kozin rolled away from her. Tillie's lungs had an impressive stamina, and the bleating never weakened. The black-haired witcher pulled the pillow over his head and pressed it down over his head. It didn't help at all.

"Shut up!" Kozin hissed, flying upright again. He glared down at the lamb, which had grown silent. "You're an animal! Animals sleep on the floor!"

The moment his head touched the pillow, the bleating rose up again. Kozin had no choice but to admit defeat and pull her back onto the bed. He set her at the foot of the bed, but she wriggled up to his head to continue nursing on his earlobe. Kozin sighed and closed his eyes, hoping that the lamb would fall asleep soon. What a winter this was turning out to be.

* * *

 _When I was younger, I was certain_

 _That I'd be fine without a queen_

 _Just a king inside his castle_

 _With an ocean in between_

 _Now all I do is sit_

 _And count the miles from you to me_

 _Oh, calamity_

"Oh, Calamity"—All Time Low


	31. Chapter 31 - His Majesty

_**2/1 - Cover is Andryk and Aegis. Beauty and the Beast** — **you decide which is which.**_

* * *

"What's this room?" The question was asked innocently enough. As she peeked through the door, Oslan immediately froze. The sight of the tiny, windowless room sent memories flipping through his head like a wind-blown book. Arda's puzzled eyes traced the horizon bar that ran across the top of the room. "Is that fer curtains?" She took one step in and spotted the dark maroon drops on the ground. A delicate gasp escaped her. "I-i-is tha—?"

"It's nothing, leannan," Oslan cut in quickly. He took his wife by the shoulders and gently whisked her away. "Where's Tillie wandered off to?"

"Oh, she…" Arda mumbled, throwing one last glance over her shoulder at the heavy door. "She's with 'im again. Ye know…"

"Ah," Oslan replied with a chuckle. "Her boyfriend."

"Oslan, she's joost a wee, lil'garl," Arda scolded.

"Right."

Boyfriend, doll—whatever Tillie saw the black-haired witcher as, her passion never faltered throughout the rest of the winter. When she wasn't with her adopted parents, trying to eat the grandmaster's beard, or playing with Aegis, she was pressed up against Kozin. He was annoyed at first. The main source of his grumpiness was the fact that he couldn't bring himself to light his pipe around her, but his attitude soon dwindled down to disgruntled acceptance.

Oslan found his brother sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard. Tillie was curled up in his lap. Both of them were watching Andryk instruct the Bear trainees through their cardio training. That was usually Master Galon's responsibility, but he had Andryk take over today so he could take a nap. That man was truly a bear—cold weather made him sleepy. Oslan took a seat beside Kozin and enjoyed the show.

"Come on, ye divs!" Andryk snapped, patrolling the formation of students like a predator. "What the fuck are ye doin'? Keep those knees up—don't ye dare let them drop! And _YE_. I could row around Ard Skellig in a fuckin' _paddleboat_ in the time it takes ye te do one rep! _Faster_ , ye weans!"

"Addie could definitely be a drill master," Oslan remarked, leaning an arm on the back of the bench.

"He's certainly got the spirit for it," Kozin agreed as he absently ruffled Tillie's head. "I'm telling you, Os, these laddies have it easy. What are they doing? Interval drills? Remember when Galon had us running up hills with those damned weights?"

"Couldn't forget it if I tried," Oslan replied. "You know what? Arda found _that_ room earlier."

"You mean…?"

"Aye." Both witchers fell silent, watching Andryk shout more abuse at the exhausted apprentices. "There was blood on the floor, wouldn't you believe?"

"Hell," Kozin snorted. "It's probably mine from way back. Those were the days."

"I remember Addie kicked you in the nads."

"Still haven't repaid him for that. But we're too old to be hitting each other below the belt now."

There was another pause in the conversation. Andryk had finally given the boys a break to catch their breaths. That didn't stop him from giving them a verbal beat down. "Lookit this arm!" Andryk barked, grabbing a student's arm and giving it a firm shake. "Ye can't be a witcher with twigs like these! I could floss me teeth with this!"

"Didn't think he ever flossed in the first place," Oslan mocked quietly.

"Probably does now."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? I thought you two spent the season together on An Skellig. Addie's got himself a hen too now, doesn't he?"

"You mean like a…? No, not Addie! But let me tell you, he circulated through the inn girls like a horse around the track." Oslan laughed. "You can't really call them his hens. It was all casual from what I heard. Besides, I don't think Addie's capable of falling in love."

"I don't know," Kozin mumbled. Oslan always had this feeling that the black-haired witcher knew more about people than he let on. "Remember a few weeks ago when the grandmaster was talking about some pirate king? He got this strange look on his face, like…" Kozin shifted in his seat. "Like when you find out about your lover's husband."

" _Oh_ , the queen? She can't be his hen. Wasn't he just pretending?" Oslan asked. "He hates her with every fiber of his being. Well, he slept with her, 'cause you know how he is. But he definitely hates her. She's one of the most crooked people I've ever heard of."

"And Addie hates crooks," Kozin agreed in a mumble.

Oslan watched as Andryk dragged the trainees through another grueling drill. The red-haired witcher's fierce spirit was undeniable. On the surface, Andryk seemed insufferable. And at times, he truly was. But Oslan couldn't deny that Andryk had the biggest heart out of anyone in the guild. As stupid as the comparison was, Andryk was like their shining lighthouse in the night.

And then something happened, and that beacon went out. The witcher was still there, but Andryk was gone. That big heart had broken.

* * *

It was the winter of the following year. They noticed immediately as soon as the bow of his boat hit the shore. There was no boomed greeting, no slaps to the shoulder. There wasn't even the slightest hint of acknowledgement as Andryk marched right past them all with Aegis trailing solemnly behind him.

Kozin had been in the Continent and didn't know about the battle. Oslan had stayed on An Skellig and knew only a little about what happened. He had seen the celebrations that took place at the inn and at Urialla's Harbor. Their faces had been jovial. Now here was the witcher who carried himself like his world had collapsed. They heard the retreating sounds of his boots as he headed straight for his room, and the slam of his door.

The joy there and the heartbreak here had come from the same news: Skellige was liberated from the pirates. Their king and queen were dead.

* * *

He was wondering to himself whether he had outdone himself this time. The abandoned watchtower wasn't the strangest place Andryk had gone to for a tryst, but it was certainly one of the more uncomfortable ones. The only "mattress" between them and the old, creaky cot frame was his bedroll and a saddle blanket. It'd felt like paper.

Andryk was rustled out of his thoughts when he felt her hand glide up his thigh and rest on his knee. He was still exhausted, and his body still ached from the shoddy bedding, but her touch still sparked him like always. His arms tightened around the woman nestled between his propped legs. As Andryk pressed his lips against her hair, he could still catch the faint scent of lemon and wintergreen. She had taken to scrubbing as much of the perfume off as she could before meeting him, but traces still clung to her skin. At least now, it was much too weak to have any effect. The amulet was nearby, but it was the gesture that mattered.

He knew tonight was it, and then she'd steal away before dawn. Their time together was always so bitterly short, and the span between them was always so cruelly long. He could no longer count the number of times he'd asked her to stay with him. Leave the pirates. They weren't worth it. And always, she'd respond the same.

This time, she said something else.

"No more."

Andryk paused. He knew what she meant, but he still asked, "What?"

"This is the last time, Andryk. After this, no more." He refused to respond. The silence squeezed them until she said, "I can't keep doing this."

"Why not?"

"They're noticing," was the answer. "And when they notice, he notices. This has to stop before it gets worse." She began pulling away from him. Every time she did, she would tug his heart with her. But Andryk let her break away from his arms.

"What happened te ye?" He'd never asked about the scar before, but now he had a looming suspicion about its origin.

She paused. Instinctively, her hand came up to her chest and hovered protectively over it. Then she let it drop and started dressing.

"Karina—."

"A mistake," she interrupted, "that won't happen again."

Andryk sat at the edge of the cot as he watched her dress with her back towards him. Ever since he had heard it from the grandmaster, the topic had been waiting on the edge of his tongue. He'd been hesitant to bring it up and corrupt their short time together, but it was either now or never.

"The Pirate King." He could see her visibly tense. Andryk continued, "That's who stole ye away, wasn't it?"

"Don't."

"What does he have on ye?" Andryk demanded. "Look at me, Karina. What does—?"

"Stop it!"

"He's just a man, isn't he? I could—."

"Stop it, Andryk! Stop talking about him!" The panic in her voice silenced him. After a deep breath, she wrapped the belt around her waist and fastened it.

She was at the door when he said, "Don't do this te me." She only paused for a heartbeat, and then was gone.

* * *

He thought. He thought and thought and thought, until the pain in his head became tangible. Then he came to a decision, and he went through with it. He didn't question his plan because stopping to assess plausibility was the stupid kind of thing Oslan or Kozin would do.

Why he even bothered still caring had been long since lost on him. Some part of him told him that it was wrong and that he should just shed her like a worn piece of armor. Running after her like this made him as tethered to her as he'd been before. But this was different, he tried to justify to himself. He wasn't doing this because he was being asked to. Deep down, he was sure he could still save her.

Her ship was gone from the shore, but Andryk followed the gut instinct that told him she was on Undvik. Indeed, he saw the Palanquin's familiar shape as he approached the island. He also saw a larger ship next to it, her dark merlot coloring giving it a sinister appearance. Even in the dim, evening light, Andryk saw the ship's ensign waving from its main mast. It depicted a skull with the hilts of two blades jutting out from each of its eye sockets. The blades protruding out from behind the skull crossed over in an 'X.' The toothy grin stretched maniacally across its face.

Andryk directed his boat into the cover of the Palanquin's shadow. After a moment to listen, he decided that simply going up the ramp wasn't going to work. The Palanquin wasn't completely deserted like last time, and he probably wasn't welcomed onboard anymore. Andryk's eyes skimmed over the ridges and portholes that textured the ship's hull like a craggy cliff side.

Scaling the side was simple. But as Andryk came up to the railing, caution slipped from his mind and he pulled himself up and over it. He spotted the pirate and gave a huff as he dropped down below the rail. It was already too late. He heard the approaching footsteps and the muttered, "What the…?"

Andryk's mind raced in the few seconds before he would be spotted. There was no spot that would hide him from view when the pirate leaned over. Well, hiding wasn't his style anyway.

He remained motionless as the footsteps neared. His breathing became slow and his body tensed. Suddenly, he sprang up right as the dark figure appeared above him. Andryk made sure to grab the man by the neck so he wouldn't cry out and yanked him over the rail. Of course, he couldn't do anything about the hollering as the pirate fell and hit the water.

"Fuckin'…" Andryk cursed quietly to himself as he shimmied along the side of the ship in short, rapid leaps. He felt the wood vibrate as more boots struck the deck. Others were coming to inspect the ruckus. Andryk skirted along the ridge faster, timing his breaths with his leaps to preserve his stamina. He was already several yards away when the first heads peeked over the edge.

"What'ya reckon?" he heard one of them say.

"Dumb cunt prol'y fell o'er the edge again," another one sneered.

While they were preoccupied, Andryk quickly vaulted over the rail and crouched in the shadow of a pair of barrels. He was honestly lost. How was he supposed to sneak across an open deck with so many eyes? Well, first he ought to identify where he was sneaking _to_. His eyes drifted over to the captain's quarters. Someone was in there, and he figured he knew who it was.

Andryk threw a glance back at the gathering at the rail. A few had lost interest and peeled away. Most were still standing there to watch their fellow man swim back to the dock. Andryk looked back at the cabin doors, drawing different paths in his mind. He knew a straight shot was the best to avoid being seen, but the two pirates guarding the door were his biggest problem. Well, there was a relatively easy solution to that.

Holding up a hand signing Axii, Andryk beckoned the two men to leave their posts. Instead, they were knocked unconscious and slumped to the ground. Fuck, he could never get Axii right. This aligned with his plan anyway, Andryk figured. With one last scan of the deck, he found an opening to dart to the doors and slip through.

Lantern light illuminated the large space. Heavy steam and the scent of bath oils hung in the air from the now cold bath. Ronja was standing by the dresser. A damp towel was draped over its top, and its second drawer was open. At the sound of Andryk's entrance, she whirled around. Their eyes met. Andryk thought fear in her eyes, but they were quickly overshadowed by the shock that crossed her entire face.

"What are…?" Andryk saw her eyes flicker quickly over to the doors before they returned to him. "You shouldn't be here. _I told you to leave me alone!"_ She definitely sounded nervous.

"I know ye don't want te be here," Andryk told her, crossing over to where she stood. Ronja backed into the dresser.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Ye told me ye were trapped!" He held out a hand to her. All she did was look at it. "Ye don't have te stay. Come on."

"Do you not think I've considered running?" Her voice was bitter.

Andryk stepped forward to take her hand. "I can take ye te a place where they can't find ye. Where he can't find ye. An island te the east o'here." Andryk had no idea what had gotten into him. He couldn't possibly bring her there. Well, he had already thrown all of his sense out the window by coming here.

He could see it in her eyes that her reluctance was breaking. "Are you telling the truth?"

"I am."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Then determination filled her eyes as she tightened her hand in his. At his gentle tug, she stepped forward, allowing him to lead her. As they approached the door, Ronja pulled him back. "I think you should let me go first," she told Andryk. "Not unless you want one of my boys to crack your skull open right as you open that door."

"Right," Andryk replied. "I kinda… took care o'them."

"You killed them?" Ronja asked. She didn't sound the least bit concerned.

"Nay, they're just takin' a heavy snooze."

"Well, we're going to have to hurry," Ronja said. "I imagine my men won't be very accepting to the sight of their queen being 'kidnapped.'"

"What are they goin' te do?" Andryk challenged. Ronja responded with a smirk. As the door was cracked open, Andryk spotted the still unconscious guards. Had it not been for the fact that he could hear their heartbeats, he would've figured he'd killed them with his Axii somehow.

As he waited for the most opportune moment to head for the ramp, he felt Ronja give his hand a squeeze. "Let's go!" Again, he heard the unease in her voice.

"It's not clear—."

"They don't matter." Ronja suddenly pushed the door wide opened. The sudden assault of open air and light spurred the witcher into action. Gripping her hand tightly, he sprang out onto the deck. Ronja kept up with his speed. They were halfway across the deck when the first alarmed shouts rang out. A pirate blocked the way between them and the ramp. Andryk saw the flash of a sword and raised his arm to catch the blade on the metal plating over his forearm. He knocked the blade away and sent the pirate flying with a firm kick. Oddly, he met no other opposition.

That is, until he had taken only a few steps down the ramp. Suddenly, he felt the tug on his arm as the hand he was holding onto resisted him. Andryk stopped and looked back. Ronja was frozen in her tracks. Her face had grown pale. There seemed to be black smoke swirling around her. Then Andryk realized that the smoke was behind her.

"What are you doing?" an eerily gentle voice asked. A man was where the smoke had been, as though the black wisps had coalesced into him.

Ronja's composure instantly shifted. She straightened up and lifted her chin. Yanking her hand back, she took a step up the ramp and turned to the man. "Nothing," she answered him. "Just entertaining the fantasies of a delusional fool." Her voice had changed too. She sounded like the pirate queen Andryk had met on An Skellig. All traces of Karina had vanished like a discarded costume. Andryk watched as she walked back up to the top of the ramp. The man held an arm out to her and she nestled against his side without hesitation. The witcher's burning eyes watched as her fingertips teased the skin exposed in the slit of the man's black tunic collar. His arm was wrapped possessively around her waist.

From the moment Andryk had learned of his existence, his mind's eye had always pictured this man to look like the typical shady boss—ugly and fat. He looked nothing of the sort. He was fair with his shoulder-length, dark copper brown hair and deep green eyes. His beard was shortened to darkening stubble, and his mustache was neat and trimmed. Though his tunic was crisp and well fitted, Andryk could see his body was lean and exuded strength. A small, decorative shoulder plate of what looked suspiciously like bone was on his right shoulder, its pale surface contrasting starkly with the black fabric. A heavy, basket-hilted sword was at his hip.

The Pirate King regarded Andryk with what looked to be amused fascination, like he was observing an exotic animal. "So this is the witcher," he mused. "You've built up quite a reputation."

"Have I—?"

"—As a puppet," the Pirate King finished. "I see my dearest queen has played you hard. Even now, you come mewling for her affection. How was it, mutant?" He caressed the Queen's hip. Every stroke intensified Andryk's rage. "Ronja, you should have told me you wanted a pet. Though I suppose he's close enough with those animal eyes."

The steel blade was in Andryk's hand in a flash. He thrust a finger towards the Pirate King. " _Ye_ ," he snarled. "Yer a murderer and a rapist and a coward. Now draw yer sword, ye fucker. I'm givin' ye one chance te die like a man with a sword in yer hand." It took all his self-restraint not to swing the broadsword now and cut the man down where he stood.

What happened next shocked him to the core. Ronja slid a hand up to the Pirate King's cheek and gently pulled his face towards her. They kissed like lovers in a private room, completely apathetic towards the furious witcher confronting them. The grip Andryk had on his sword could have reduced stone to dust.

When they parted, it was her who told him, "You ought to leave with what dignity you still have left."

Andryk couldn't believe it. His disbelief was all that kept his heart tethered together. "Get away from that bastard. We can still leave."

"Leave? With you? What are you compared to my king?" Ronja asked, draping hand over his chest.

"But ye told me—."

"What _you_ wanted to hear. Like I said, Andryk, you're a good man, and good men are weak. Once I found out I had no control over you, I had you feeling sorry for me. And it worked just as well."

The Pirate King scoffed. "Did you tell him you were a jarl's daughter? Ha! That one's my favorite. Gets them every time." Throwing a sneer at Andryk, he said, "She was born a pirate, you damn fool! Born and raised! Her father was the Pirate King until he passed, bless his dirty, sleazy soul. Then he had me take his dirty, sleazy throne. Well, witcher?" He threw his free arm out. "We make quite the regal couple, don't we? Could really give his fuckin' Majesty the king of Skellige himself and his wench a run for their money!" Suddenly, the Pirate King's face grew dark. "Now she told you to get lost, so get lost."

The anger in him screamed and thrashed, roaring at him to lift up the sword and spill blood. But Andryk knew that now wasn't the time. With the King, Queen, and all the men on their two ships, he was sorely outnumbered.

"This isn't the last ye'll see o'me," Andryk growled. "And when we meet again…" His scathing eyes switched to her. Her too. He'd do her in too for what she did to him. Andryk returned the sword to his back and dug his hand into a pouch. His clenched hand came back out with something loose and shining between his fingers. He threw the circlet down at her feet, the onyx stones and skull pendant thudding heavily on the wood. "Thought I could save ye, but yer not even worth it." With those words spat out, he turned.

* * *

She watched his back as the witcher left. Her hand sagged down from the King's chest and dropped to her side. His arm was still encircling her waist. She turned her head and pressed her face against him, not out of affection but so she wouldn't have to watch the witcher leave and take what had almost been her freedom with him.

Ronja felt him push her away so he could reach his sword. She looked up at him. "Don't," she pleaded. "Just let him go."

The Pirate King looked at her. The bits of skin that had already begun to dissolve into smoke solidified again. "What's this?" His voice was soft. Ronja looked down, afraid to confront the accusation in his eyes. But his hand grabbed her jaw and forced her back into his stare. "You want to spare the witcher?" His fingers dug into her skin, holding her jaw in place so she couldn't speak. "Then beg," he commanded, releasing her. "Tell me of my generosity. Tell me of my benevolence."

She obeyed, though it was clear from the look of disgust on his face that the King wasn't the least bit satisfied. Suddenly, his razor-like gaze swept across the deck. The looks that traveled across the faces of the crew were as if the Pirate King had swung an actual blade at them. "Below deck, you dogs!" he snapped. They did as they were told, fleeing for the shelter of the stairs. In a matter of seconds, the deck was deserted with only the two of them left alone. Ronja's heart beat fast and hard, and she heard the nervous rhythm in her ears. She'd displeased him by asking him to spare the witcher, and she knew what was coming next.

"Are you deaf?" he asked in hardly more than a whisper. Ronja dared to look back up at him, and that's when the back of his hand cracked harshly against her jaw. She kept her footing, but the force of the hit threw her head to the side. _"I said BEG."_

With sharp, fiery pain still twisting and curling in the side of her face, Ronja knelt down and bowed her head until her face was inches from the toe of his boot. Again, she repeated herself, telling the King of his generosity. He didn't respond at first. Ronja squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation for the boot to come flying up.

Instead, he told her, "Good." Ronja began to raise her head up. The boot came up and pinned down the back of her head, slamming her forehead against the deck. "I didn't ask you to get up," he said. The pressure of his boot left her head, but she didn't raise her head this time. "I'll let the witcher go. But not because you asked me—because there's something more important that I have to deal with." As she listened, Ronja dreaded what was to come. She knew it would ultimately happen. It happened whenever she displeased him. Every second prolonged the terrifying anticipation.

"Don't think I don't know what you were trying to do. Entertaining fantasies? You were betraying me. Do you remember the last time you tried to betray me? _Do you?_ " Ronja felt a stab of phantom pain in her breast. Then, all of a sudden, his voice became soft again. "I'm hurt. I love you, Ronja, and this is what you do to me." He paused, waiting.

"I'm sorry."

"And?" he asked. She knew what he wanted.

"I was wrong to hurt you." Her next words were forced up, bitter like bile. "I love you too."

"Come up."

Finally, she lifted her head and stood back up. His eyes were compassionate now. He was her king again. "I'm sorry too," he told her. "I was scared because I almost lost you. You are my queen, Ronja. You are special to me." His words were silken, caressing her heart. He always told her that. She believed him. Why else would he have spared her on that beach?

But in the back of her mind, she heard him. _Deep down ye know he's wrong. That's not what love is!_ The King punished every little bit of weakness she showed. The witcher had never done that.

But now Andryk hated her. The circlet was still on the ground where he had thrown it. Maybe she didn't deserve love. Maybe the King was all she would ever have. At the thought, her eyes burned, though she desperately fought to keep the tears from showing. Crying made him mad.

It didn't work. The King saw her glassy eyes. He raised his hand. Ronja expected another strike, but instead his hand came delicately up to her cheek. It was the same cheek he had struck earlier, and his touch shot pain through her sensitive skin. "Oh, Ronja," he murmured. "Come here." He leaned down towards her.

Ronja thought of the witcher as she closed her eyes. She told herself that it was his lips on hers. The image of his fiery hair and golden eyes was her last thought.

Her eyes were still closed when she felt his hand tighten into an unbearable grip on her face. Then his other came up to seize her head in a tight hold. Her eyes shot open as their lips parted. For an instant, she saw his face—cold and inhuman. Then she saw nothing else, felt nothing else. She didn't hear the raw crack of her neck as the King brutally forced her head to twist.

The sound of her body hitting the deck was heavy and sickening. Her empty eyes stared towards the ramp. The Pirate King called up one of the men from below deck. The feeble man froze in fear when he saw the body.

"Take her to the hold of the Black Smoke. You should know where to put her—the chains are still there. Make sure the binds are tight."

Automatically, the pirate moved on the order. As he lifted her up, the fearful words escaped his mouth, "Sh-she's…"

"She's?" the King prompted. He wanted to hear the man say it.

"She's… she's d-dead, yer Majesty."

The King's laugh was grating. _"Dead?"_ he sneered. "You think I'd let her get away from me that easily? Take her to the hold!" The man did as he was told. A few minutes later, the King left the Palanquin to step on his own ship. As he stood above the hold, he heard the screaming and pleading. She was begging him to let her out. Pounding his heel down on the wood, he laughed.

* * *

 _Shot down, she's coming like a hurricane_

 _Shot down, she's in love with the pain_

 _I couldn't stop_

 _Couldn't stop_

 _Stop caring_

"Couldn't Stop Caring"—The Spiritual Machines


	32. Chapter 32 - War of Kings

Her screams only subsided when her throat had worn itself out. That was when he finally came down to the hold. He descended the stairs slowly, letting his boots hit the wood with heavy, defining steps.

She was in the corner. Her body was curled up against the wall, and her wrists were held above her head by the chain that bound her to the rail. No one had been allowed to come down into the hold while she'd been there. Unlike the first time she had come aboard the Black Smoke, he did not permit anyone else to have her. But, he mused, just being here had sent her down that spiral of terror.

Ronja didn't move as he came up to her. He could hear her faint, shaky breathing. She was very much alive now. Even her neck had mended. That was all because of him.

The Pirate King reached down and stroked his breastbone, feeling the hardness of the amulet that was embedded in his flesh. He had known from the moment he accepted its power and allowed it to latch onto him that it was his greatest treasure. The power was a gift, not a curse like the inscription on the crypt entrance had denoted. Only a fool would shy away from such a fortune. This was how he'd been able to terrorize the sea for a century. This was how no navy, Skelligan or otherwise, had been able to defeat him. And this was how he kept her, no matter how she had tried to free herself.

The Pirate Queen had been sculpted from what he wanted her to be, but she was still so weak. Not that it mattered—that weakness made her the clay he could squeeze and shape in his hand.

He reached for her chains and unfastened her. Ronja looked up. The King crouched down to look at her face-to-face. Her eyeliner had run down from her tears and had dried into dark lines on her cheeks. The King said nothing as he watched this wreck of a woman. Even now, she looked beautiful, and he had to quiet down the urge to take her right then. First, he had to get his queen back.

"I didn't want to do it," he told her, cupping her cheek in his hand. "But I had to. The witcher corrupted you. You needed to be punished. Don't you understand? He did this to you." With her eyes still focused on him, Ronja nodded, unable to speak. The King wrapped his arms around her and bundled her against his chest. "I still care about you. I've always cared." With one hand, he played with the hair on her forehead. "The witcher left you. He doesn't love you the way I do. Do you understand?" She nodded again.

The King suddenly dipped his head down, his lips pressing against the softness of her neck. As he traced a line with gentle kisses, he felt the amulet grow hot. It burned the flesh that surrounded it as he drew its dark power. With it, he restored her tattered throat. He wanted her to be perfect—well, nearly perfect. There were some scars he kept on her as a reminder.

"Tell me you love me," he whispered into her skin. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she told him, her voice quivering with lust. The King grinned. She was just as desperate for affection as that pitiful witcher.

The King pulled away from her. She gazed up at him, her firm eyes glittering with trance-like admiration. She was back. Good.

He wiped the dark trails from her face. "Are you ready to be my queen again?" he asked, raising a hand which held the circlet.

"I am."

Taking her by the hand, the King rose and led her back up to the deck. He came to the portside of the ship and gazed out towards the open water. With his hands resting lightly on the rail, he said, "We are going to usher in chaos, Ronja. Rattle Skellige's cage."

"What do you mean?"

The King looked at her. "I think it's time for a change in leadership. We're going to kill the king."

There was a pause. Then, Ronja asked, "And take the throne?"

"I'd sooner tear this thing out of my chest than subject myself to that. I am king of the sea, not of a grim, stony keep. No, I aim to take the head of the man who sits on the throne now and put someone of my choosing in his place. Someone who will play more by our rules." He had gotten quite accustomed to the welcoming treatment on An Skellig, and knew they'd profit even more if a man like na Feachd was situated on the throne.

"Call your fleet, Ronja. Summon every last ship. Towards August, we strike, and I want to wipe every last trace of the king's navy from these waters." About 30 vessels sailed under the Pirate Queen's ensign. That alone wouldn't be enough to take the king's trained and armed navy, even with na Feachd's support. But the Pirate King had his own armada, not to mention his own little gift. Habitually, he reached up and pressed on the metal, basking in the dull pain the relict caused.

* * *

The unpleasant scuffing of boots on stone was the only comfort to his ears as he was led through what he presumed was a hall. He felt the tight grip of hands clutching his shoulders and forearms, though his wrists were already bound behind his back. For another few minutes, the men pushed him forward, occasionally turning him around corners. Then, up ahead, he heard the sound of a heavy door creaking open. He guessed that it was ten feet or so ahead of him, though he couldn't actually tell because of the blindfold.

They led him through the door. Immediately, he heard the vastness of the space beyond the door—their footsteps no longer bounced off of narrow walls. They had either taken him to the throne room like he'd asked… or they'd taken him to the courtyard where the chopping block waited. Honestly, he wasn't sure which possibility was more likely.

After he'd only taken a few steps, a foot dug into the back of his legs and forced him onto his knees. The pain from the harsh stone shot through his legs. He next expected them to shove his head down onto the block. All this occurred, Andryk mused, just because he'd asked to negotiate.

He heard footsteps echo from what he presumed was the opposite end of the room, which meant that they had indeed taken him to see the king like he'd requested. In that case, his Majesty's hospitality was far from what he'd expected.

The footsteps stopped, leaving a large distance between them. "Did you know," came a quiet, throaty voice, "that a man with two swords strapped to his back, like yours, killed my nephew and his family?"

"Aye," Andryk answered. He'd been warned of these witchers by Kozin and the grandmaster—of witchers in Skellige who had diverged from the Path.

"Then it riddles me with curiosity why you would dare approach me with your weapons laid down and your hands raised. I admit, this curiosity is the only reason why you still live."

"I've come with a proposal fer yer Majesty's sage consideration."

"A proposal?" a second voice cried deridingly. "This dog's out o'his mind, he is! I say we—." Something, a silencing glare from the king perhaps, cut off the outspoken man.

"Give me your name, witcher."

"Andryk…" His mind raced. "Of Fornhala."

"Fornhala?" the king mumbled inquisitively. After a moment's pause, he said, "A witcher freed the people of Fornhala from a curse years back. Was it you?"

"Aye, yer Majesty."

"Tell me what you did."

"It was the work o'Svalblod's worshippers. They were kidnappin' villagers to sacrifice to the dark god. The cave entrance to their lair was in one o'the houses. Under a desk." His anecdote was followed by more silence. Andryk heard a third voice whisper, "His story aligns with the report."

"So it was you," the king said to Andryk. The tone of his voice suddenly shifted. "My apologies for not recognizing you sooner. Release him." Andryk felt someone come up from behind him and cut his wrists free. The blindfold was pulled from his face. Andryk blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. From the other end of the room, King Jørn approached him. "On your feet, Andryk." The witcher rose as the king stopped before him.

"You must forgive me for your prior treatment. Your clan and mine no longer see eye to eye. However, I am not a man of boundless hatred. You have my gratitude for what you've done for Fornhala."

Andryk gave a dip of his head in return. "Yer Majesty's caution is well placed," he said. "I've heard o'the misdeeds o'me kindred."

"And yet your grandmaster has sent me countless appeals, telling me that your kind are now different. I can see there is some truth to his words." King Jørn placed his hands behind his back and continued, "Still, no amount of good deeds will put your guild back into good standing, unfortunately. Even if my grudge has weakened, those of certain jarls have not. Some have suffered more at the hands of witchers than I have, and I would have more luck stilling the tides than quieting their anger." Andryk nodded his understanding. "Now back to your proposal, Andryk. What is it?"

"Yer Majesty, it's become known that ye've been gatherin' men fer war."

"Aye, that is correct."

"War with pirates."

King Jørn fell silent. Then, he turned and stepped to a nearby window. Andryk watched as the king's form darkened in the light. "It's come to my attention that they aim to kill me. Replace me with a king more to their liking, I wager. One that doesn't display the hanged remains of their kind on the shores."

"Those reminders serve a purpose," Andryk agreed.

"They do. But as you can assume, their threat has become serious enough to beckon me to take action and defend myself. Did you know there's one among the pirates who calls himself their king? And another their queen?" He gave a mocking laugh.

"I'm aware." Andryk's voice came out in a growl.

"Am I right in saying that your proposal has something to do with my plans?"

"Ye are correct, yer Majesty. I want te fight alongside yer men."

"Curious." King Jørn turned back from the window. "I thought witchers shied away from taking sides in political affairs."

"The outcome o'this fight affects the whole o'Skellige," Andryk said. "I've seen the ruin that pirates leave behind. I'll not see a king that condones monsters te run among his people."

"That's noble of you, Andryk," King Jørn praised as he turned back to the window. The king didn't see the look in the witcher's eyes that revealed his true intentions. Andryk's motives were anything but noble. While sailing with the king, he wanted his chance at revenge.

"I imagine you want a reward for this?"

Andryk considered his payment for a moment. To tell the truth, the opportunity to sink his sword into the two that had wronged him was all he wanted. But now that he thought about it… "A chance te absolve me guild o'its wrongdoin's," he answered.

"You wish a pardon from me to your school?"

"Aye."

King Jørn sighed. "That I can do, but I warn you that it will do little to assuage the others."

"It's a start."

"Very well. If, by the end of this, I am not replaced, then a pardon will be underway. Is that all?"

"Well… and maybe a little gold. I've got a pup te feed."

* * *

The following day, King Jørn and his stallari held a war council at dawn. The king had permitted Andryk to listen in. However, he stood back near a corner, observing the table at the center through a gap between two stallari. Aegis lay sprawled on the floor by his feet.

The stallari were currently telling the king of the headcount they'd managed to round up. An Skellig had provided no support. "Claimin' tae be neutral an' stayin' outta tha fight!" a blond stallari with a thickly braided beard spat. "Bullshite, it is! We're all knowin' what that dog na Feachd is oop tae."

The other stallari grunted in agreement. "Ought'a stick his head on a pike!"

"We'll deal with Jarl na Feachd once _this_ is dealt with," King Jørn interrupted, rapping his knuckles on the table. The small markers on the map jumped with every strike. Immediately, the stallari settled down. King Jørn took up a wooden block with a certain rune on it and placed it on the northeast edge of Undvik. "They're gathering here, likely aiming for a straight shot into the bay." That bay was where Kaer Trolde was closest to the water. King Jørn placed a block with a different rune—one of his clan name—and placed it over the mouth of the bay. "We'll take some ships and form a barricade here. Take the other ships and confront them directly." He placed the final block in the space between the bay and Undvik. The men were silent as they examined the map. Aegis sat up and loudly scratched her neck. Andryk nudged her with a foot to get her to stop. She plopped onto her belly with a disgruntled huff.

So the king was opting for a frontal assault, a head-on collision with the enemy. It was a very Skelligan thing to do, but Andryk had doubts about the plan working on the pirates. His gut warned him about the Pirate King. What he had seen and what he had felt didn't sit right with him.

"Yer Majesty," the witcher spoke up. "I've got a little input, if ye don't mind." Some of the stallari looked as though they did mind, but the king waved for him to continue. "Their king, he…" Andryk trailed off. How was he supposed to explain to them that his medallion had vibrated when he'd met the Pirate King? Andryk wasn't certain what it meant himself. He decided to go with the more logical explanation. "He's… got some magic te him."

"A mage?" a stallari assumed. He looked to the others. "Then we ought to get the druids involved."

"They won't fight," another dismissed. "Too damned peace-loving for their own good."

"Don't think he's a mage," Andryk said as he came up to the table. "But he's got some secret I'd be weary of. It's given him no short amount o'confidence."

"Whatever trickery he has up his sleeve, won't help him in the least bit," King Jørn said. The stallari cried out in agreement, thunking their fists on the table. Andryk looked around, and then shrugged. The king was right. The Pirate King was no match for the force of the Skelligan army. His little smoke trick wasn't going to work when they rammed his ship into pieces.

"And you, witcher?"

The question jarred Andryk out of his thoughts. His eyes settled on the king. "Yer Majesty?"

"Where will I have you?" He smacked the map with the backs of his fingers.

Andryk crossed his arms. "Wherever the action's the thickest."

"Aye, that's the spirit!" a stallari praised.

"You'll be on the front line then," King Jørn determined, "on one of the battering ships. Board the enemy ship as soon as the bow makes contact, and then clear out the crew. Then make haste for the next one." He eyed Andryk, and the witcher nodded.

* * *

In the three weeks that slipped the calendar from July to August, the smithies worked nonstop. The docks were thrumming with activity as the shipwrights pumped out enough war boats to carry the warriors. King Jørn's enormous flagship was being prepped, as were the guard ships that would surround his Majesty's vessel.

Those three weeks were the longest in his life. As August was just beginning to wane and the dock filled with new ships, Andryk found the confines of the castle suffocating. He found an empty balcony and sat on its edge, his arm moving nonstop as he oiled the already-gleaming blade in his lap. Aegis lay in a bright patch to sun her side.

When he could do no more for the steel sword, he immediately switched to the silver. Andryk dared not still his hands. Whenever he did, his mind would creep back into those thoughts—thoughts of her. Through his anger he would start to miss her. Andryk blinked himself awake and quickened his work.

Then, the wait was over. One day, a hurried message was delivered to the docks that the enemy ships were seen moving towards them from Undvik. From on top of the keep, a bellowing horn shook the air and the warriors filed onto their ships in an impossibly speedy fashion. Andryk followed them and boarded the nearest battering ship with Aegis close at his heels. As soon as his second foot left the pier, the ship was in motion. As they cut across the water, Andryk ducked under the flickering sail and hurried to the front.

The bow of the ship, unlike the long, curved dragonheads of the other ships, was short and pointed—designed for smashing into another vessel. Behind the bow was a wide platform meant for warriors to step up onto when boarding the enemy.

The navigator stood on the platform now as they headed towards the mouth of the bay. Andryk joined him, watching the barricade of ships in the distance draw closer. As they picked up speed, the wind became harsher and whipped his hair back.

The navigator turned back towards the ship. "We'll be buttin' heads wi' the bastards about three leagues out from the bay," he called out to the rest over the howl of the wind and the hiss of water slapping the hull. "Soon as the bow bites, ye haul yer arses onto their ship an' give 'em hell, aye?"

The warriors responded in unison.

"Any words fer the men, witcher?" the navigator asked, turning to Andryk.

He stared back. "Ye want me te say somethin'?"

"Aye, why not? Give the boys a lil'rallyin'.

Andryk turned back and looked at the ship. There were so many faces, many hidden by helmets. The ship was packed. Aegis sat at the front of the crowd. The Skelligers around her had given her some space by leaning away from her while she wheezed and drooled thick cords of saliva. What was there to say? Andryk thought of what was to come, of whom they were going to face. He thought of her, but this time he didn't feel sadness or yearning. He was going to make her regret ever messing with a witcher. "We'll show 'em what happens when they clash metal with true Skelligers!"

His words were met with shouts.

"Paint their decks in blood! Soak their sails with it!"

More shouts.

"For Skellige!" What was he doing? Whatever it was, it was fun. His heart was racing.

 _"For Skellige!"_ came the unified voices. Aegis joined by throwing back her head and letting out a series of yelps and howls.

"For the king!" the navigator chimed in, throwing his fist up.

 _"For the king!"_

"I see 'em there!" the helmsman shouted from the back of the boat, taking one hand off the wheel to point. All eyes flew to the bow of the ship. Andryk whirled around and saw figures dotting the horizon. He walked right up to the pointed bow and crouched down, squinting his eyes against the wind. Even from where they were now, he could examine the details on the ships. Some of them sailed under the ensign of the Queen, and many more sailed under the King's blinded skull. From behind the smaller pirate ships, he saw her—the Palanquin. But the dark merlot ship did not accompany her.

Andryk scanned the rest of the fleet for the Black Smoke with unease bubbling in his stomach. It should've been here. An entire missing ship spelled trouble. Andryk turned to the navigator. "We've got a—."

It all happened in a matter of seconds. First, Andryk saw the shock cross the faces before him. He turned just as their ship became engulfed in shadow. What Andryk saw next stole his breath.

The battering ship next to theirs could do nothing to avoid the large mass of half-smoke, half dark merlot wood. In a blink, the rest of the smoke immediately solidified into the Black Smoke. As they collided, the battering ship was smashed into splinters. The men aboard it disappeared under the churning water and exploding wood.

The battle-honed men quickly regained their composure. The navigator shouted for the archers to ready their bows. Arrows rained down towards the Black Smoke from all directions, regular steel-tipped ones aimed towards the deck and flaming ones shot at the hull. The dark merlot ship endured only one volley before it suddenly dissipated into a dark fog. It shot away and reemerged next to the Palanquin.

"Damned buggers've got sorcery!" one of the warriors cried.

"Aren't goin' te stop the likes o'us!" the navigator shot back. "Isn't that right, witcher?"

"Yer damned right!" Andryk snapped, glaring back over at the Black Smoke. "Pissheads can't even fight fair! Put 'em down!" In response, swords and axes were bashed against shields. Andryk turned back to watch their ship sail closer to the opposition's front line. He felt a spike of electricity run through his body when the navigator shouted, "Ready yerselves!" The steel sword flew into Andryk's hand, and he gave it an eager whirl.

The pirate ship came hurtling towards them at an alarming rate. Andryk steeled himself, holding himself with a wide stance. In the next heartbeat, the bow dug into the hull. After letting the shuddering jolt pass, the witcher leapt onto the pirate ship. The man following him had barely touched the deck when Andryk swung the blade, slashing a pirate across the chest and nearly cutting him in two. With a roar, Andryk blasted out Aard. The pirate that had been charging at him blew back into another, and they both smashed through the rail before disappearing over the edge of the deck.

By then, the deck was swarmed with the king's warriors. The deck was abuzz with battle as men hacked and bodies collapsed. Aegis hurtled towards the nearest pirate and latched on with her fangs. Andryk moved seamlessly from one fight to another, his stained blade never halting for more than a blink as if to catch its breath.

 _"There you are, witcher."_ The wind seemed to howl with his voice. Andryk took a step back as the air in front of him was suddenly filled with writhing trails of black smoke. A form emerged from the smog, gripping a heavy saber in hand. He came so forcefully towards Andryk that the witcher instinctively strafed back as though dodging a strike. Then he had to lift his sword to parry an actual strike from the Pirate King's saber.

"I'll take your head and bring it to her," he said in an eerily casual manner.

"Won't even give ye the chance," Andryk snapped. He struck back, twirling his whistling blade in quick loops as he slashed over and over again at the Pirate King. Every time their weapons collided, Andryk felt the matching strength that opposed. The King was a lot more formidable than Andryk had given him credit for.

He heard the thudding steps and sensed the pirate that came running up behind him. Andryk considered turning quickly to finish off the pirate and resume his attack on the Pirate King. Then, another idea came quickly to his mind.

Andryk blocked the saber that came chopping down towards him. He pushed the weapon away and landed a kick square in the Pirate King's stomach, which sent him stumbling back. Then, he whirled and grabbed the pirate by the collar just as the man was coming up to slash at him. Andryk threw the pirate at the King. His target quickly evaporated into dark smoke before the pirate could collide into him and flew off. Andryk knew he hadn't gone. Any fighter, novice or adept, knew that the best place to stand was behind the enemy.

He ducked even before he heard the swish of the saber. In the half second it took for the blade to sail over his head, Andryk had grabbed the bone dagger with his free hand. As he came up, his dagger dived in from a quick arc. When Andryk turned to face the Pirate King, the speckled blade of his dagger was already deep inside the man's neck.

The King attempted to gasp. His hands fumbled at the dagger guard pressed up to his neck. In a cold, sharp motion, Andryk yanked the blade out. Blood fell in thick torrents from the wound. The Pirate King's hand pressed against his neck in a feeble attempt to stifle the bleeding. He took a step back, stood still for a moment, and then fell back. The pool of red under his head crept across the deck.

Andryk was dazed. Did he just kill the Pirate King? Just like that? It shouldn't have been that simple, should it?

A bleeding body fell on the ground near him, jolting the witcher back to the present. It had been one of the Skelligan warriors. Andryk raised his sword just in time to parry the one that the dead man's killer swung at him. In a matter of seconds, with a few strong hits, Andryk had avenged the dead warrior. But he couldn't understand why the pirates were still fighting.

"Yer king's dead!" he boomed. "Dead within a few minutes of battle! That's spelled out yer defeat!" But the pirates fought on with passion as though they had just been rallied.

Then, Andryk heard the clapping behind him. Slow, patronizing claps. He turned and saw what should have been a corpse with its arms raised, giving him applause. Then the Pirate King sat up, using his sleeve to wipe his neck spotless. He shook his head like a dog, droplets of blood flying from his hair.

"You're quick on your toes, witcher. Not what I expected from the big, bumbling div I saw in you. Didn't see that dagger coming." He disappeared in smoke and reappeared standing on his feet. "Now where were we?"

* * *

 _You've picked some day to finally find_

 _The devil in your eyes_

 _And look inside mine_

 _I'm a long way from paradise_

 _I've said goodbye_

 _I'm the boy who cried_

"The Wolf"—Foxworth Hall


	33. Chapter 33 - What Happened on That Day

It was no use. It didn't matter how many times Andryk skewered him with his blade, or at what angle. It didn't matter what he dismembered. He'd sent the King's head flying countless times. It would sail across the deck, tumble, and come to a halt. And then it would start laughing. The body and head would disappear in smoke and reappear whole. Andryk tried and tried again, inflicting new wounds and hoping this death would be the King's last. It never was.

Andryk stumbled at caught himself with a foot. He was exhausted to the core. A shout caught his attention. He looked and saw a pirate holding Aegis in a headlock, a sword raised in his other hand. "Damn bitch!" the pirate roared. "I'll skin ye and turn yer hide into a—." His head jerked as a crossbow bolt stuck into his temple. Aegis broke free from his grasp as he sank to the ground like a dropped doll.

A heavy grating sound caused Andryk to look back to the ground in front of him. He saw the torso dragging itself towards where its lower half lay. A horrible scowl crossed his face as he returned the crossbow to his back and raised his blade. He plunged it down into the crawling torso, pinning it against the deck. Then, the crazed witcher raised the sword and struck down again. And again.

"Why. Won't. Ye. _DIE?"_ Each word was punctuated with the sound of cleaved flesh.

Suddenly, the body dissolved and rushed towards him. Andryk stepped back and choked as the black smoke flew past his head. It was like breathing in ashy wind. The smoke disappeared behind him. Andryk whirled around and saw him—the Pirate King, whole and unscathed. His grip tightened on the broadsword. He was starting to feel its weight dragging his arms down.

"Insanity, as I've been told," the Pirate King mused, "is when a man repeats an action in the same manner with the hope of a different outcome. Is it insanity that drives you, witcher? Or perhaps it is mere desperation? After all, what can you do?" The King threw his arms out, turning around as though appealing to a crowd. "Look around you! Your king foolishly thought he could beat us with sheer numbers." The Pirate King whirled around to face Andryk, hissing, "Now his men only outnumber us in dead!"

Tired amber eyes gazed around the deck. The Pirate King was right. Among the bodies, most were the king's warriors, men that he had sailed to battle with. Now the Pirate King's men surrounded him in an intimidating ring. They didn't engage, but watched with hungry eyes like hounds waiting to be tossed scraps.

Andryk looked back as the Pirate King energetically whirled his blade. "Well let's not stop here, witcher," he taunted. "This only ends when I haul your head back to my queen by that flamboyantly ginger hair of yours."

Pulling in another ragged breath, Andryk grumbled out, "Yer just jealous."

The saber flipped one more time before flying at him. Andryk raised his blade in response. Again, they clashed with enough power to shake the air. Both men stepped around each other, planting their feet down to exchange another round of intense blows. It was a rerun of the numerous battles they had previously engaged in—only now the broadsword moved sluggishly, its wielder fatigued.

A jab from the saber had its tip cut through the sleeve of Andryk's gambeson above the elbow. A hollow breath escaped from Andryk's mouth as he backed away. He cursed himself for not moving out of the way in time, though he knew he couldn't have.

The Pirate King laughed, advancing on the wounded witcher with slow, deliberate steps. "Come on, witcher. Don't stop now! I want to see you defend your life! Struggle for it!" The ring closed in, tightening the space around them.

Andryk's eyes darted around at the sneering faces around him, then focused back on the man that was driving him towards the edge of the ring. His free hand gripped his sword arm where it bled. The grip he had on his sword hilt turned his knuckles white as he fought to not drop his weapon.

In that moment, he finally admitted to himself that he was scared. Terrified. But it wasn't the fear of death that seized him—it was the fear of failure. If he died now, he would be failing the king, his guild… and his brothers.

As Andryk stepped close to the edge, hands shot out and grabbed his arms to immobilize them. By now the witcher was too tired, too disheartened, to fight. "If you will not fight for your life, then I will slaughter you like an animal." As the Pirate King spoke, he drew his saber back. Andryk held his breath.

And then released it when a clap of thunder juddered the air. To Andryk's amazement, the Pirate King doubled over with an infuriated grunt, clutching his chest as though something had stabbed him. He turned, allowing Andryk to see past him at the commotion that had occurred just a few ships away.

The boom had not been thunder. It had been the sound of the Palanquin's bow crashing into the side of the Black Smoke. The pointed bow of the smaller ship had dug deep into the dark merlot one like a knife forced into flesh. But from the look of the cracks that rippled through the front part of its hull, the Palanquin too suffered from the attack.

 _"Treacherous WHORE!"_ the Pirate King roared with a voice that, again, seemed affixed to the wind. From the feet up, his body slowly vanished into tendrils of smoke that seeped towards the entangled ships. As he dissolved, he swept an arm around towards the pirates and let his hand come to a stop pointed at Andryk. "Deal with him," he barked. "But leave the killing blow for me." With that, his torso and head finally whisked away completely.

It was her. She'd saved him, and now she was going to pay for it if Andryk didn't do anything. With a renewed burst of strength, reinforced with a sense of urgency, the witcher tore out of the arms holding him back. Flipping the blade in his hand, he scanned over the circle of men around him. "Aye, show me a good time!"

* * *

He was going after Andryk first, she knew. Whether out of spite towards the witcher or cruel sadism towards her, she wasn't sure. Ronja worried that perhaps it was the latter. The witcher had taught her a lot of truths about her king, truths that she had always known were there but had been too scared to confront.

Ronja watched the battle around her from the Palanquin's observation deck. The King had told her to refrain from the fight—at least, he'd said to her, until he brought her something. From where she stood, Ronja could see men dying on the ships around her. They were men, she realized, that were fighting to defend their homes and families from _him._ Ronja tore her eyes away and looked to the distance to where the Pirate King had disappeared. She knew there was no different from here.

Andryk was over there.

Had her cowardice caused this? If she hadn't turned her face away from the truth, would men still be dying here? Would Andryk still hate her? The deaths around her didn't bother her that much, as heartless as that truth was. It was the thought that the witcher would die with them that twisted her. And the Pirate King would make sure that the witcher would be amongst the dead.

 _The Pirate King…_ Ronja turned and looked at the towering ship that sailed next to hers. She hated him. She always had, but she had been too subservient to listen to that hate. And yet, in a depraved way, she was still attached to him. Ronja couldn't help it, not when the Pirate King had ripped open and forced his way into her heart.

She'd done the same, a horrible, intrusive voice told her. She'd forced herself into the witcher's heart, kept him tethered to her. Hell, she even had him tell her that he loved her. Two sides of the same coin, the King and Queen.

Still gazing at the Black Smoke, she resolved to kill the evil. She wasn't going to let Andryk die. Drawing her saber, Ronja ran to the front of the deck to the lowered anchor. Without thought, she grabbed the chain and gave it hopeless yank. As expected, it didn't budge in the slightest. Ronja peered over the rail to where the chain disappeared into the restless water.

There was no time to reel up the anchor. She took up her saber and jammed its point into one of the chain links. With her foot pinning part of the chain down, she pried the saber downwards until the strain kept her from pushing any further. Gritting her teeth, she continued to press down, praying to any deity that would still bother to listen to the likes of her.

Just as she was about to let go, Ronja felt the saber jolt loose. The link had split open, and the opposing pull of the anchor and the ship stretched it until it snapped in half. The Palanquin began to move again. Ronja raced back to the wheel.

"Move!" she snapped to the helmsman at the wheel, shoving him aside. She grabbed the pegs of the wheel with both hands and spun it as far as it would go. As the Palanquin picked up speed, she began to change course. Her bow veered to the left—towards the ship next to her. An unusually strong gust of wind suddenly struck the sails, pushing the Palanquin forward. Ronja ignored the protest of the helmsman as she watched the hull of the Black Smoke hurtle closer.

Even expected, the crash was incredibly jarring. Ronja was thrown into the wheel. The sound of smashing, splintering, groaning wood blasted her ears. She pushed herself off of the wheel. The ship under her shuddered heavily, taking her footing out from under her. She hit the deck and felt the structure under her groan. The Palanquin was dying.

A louder creak caught her attention. Ronja looked up to see the vast sails quiver and the main mast just beginning to fall towards her. With a gasp that stifled in her throat, she rolled and scrambled to her feet just as the mast crashed onto the wheel. The deck splintered up into jagged spikes of wood along the collapsed mast. Finally, the ships stopped moving. All was quiet, save for the sounds of pieces of the Black Smoke dropping into the water.

Ronja straightened up, struggling to catch her breath as she looked across the ruined deck. Suddenly, someone caught her by the hair. She heard his voice, thundering and furious. "You know the punishment for defiance!" He pulled her along and continued, "I will make you _watch_ him die!" She cried and fought against him, her hands pulling helplessly at his painful grip. The Pirate King gave her hair a quelling wrench. Ronja broke one hand away and scrabbled for the saber at her hip.

"No!"

"Shut up!"

" _NO!"_

The Pirate King screamed out when the blade shot through his leg. Ronja felt him release her and quickly staggered back. He glared at her, teeth bared in a wild, terrifying scowl. "You will die," he roared at her, "over and over again!" His saber flew out of its scabbard and glimmered coldly in the light. "I will have you skewered on a pole until you wail for death!" He came at her so quickly, Ronja barely had time to defend herself from his attack. Their blades rang as they clashed.

Ronja weaved between his attacks. He drove his blade at her so forcefully it terrified her. She had long endured his rage and abuse, but now it was different. The King moved at her with the undeniable drive to murder her.

The ship jounced as another part of its foundation snapped. Ronja stumbled. Then she felt the heavy blade lodge into her hip. She held the scream in her throat as the burn shot up her side. She grabbed the blade and yanked it out of her hip, slicing her palm. Then, before she could recover, the saber came whipping past and cut a gash across her chest. It came dangerously close to her neck. This time, Ronja couldn't stifle the cry. Her own sword nearly fell from her hand as she hunched over to hold her new wound. The King came at her again, but she managed to skirt away.

They had flipped sides now. The Pirate King's back was to the mast. Ronja saw what was behind him, and knew that it was her only chance. "You think you love him?" he growled. "You don't even know what love is! You're a vile, lecherous being with no purpose but to serve! I know this, Ronja, because I made you this way!"

Casting her saber aside, she shouted, "My name is Karina, you asshole!" Pushing out all her fear and pain, she rushed towards him. For a split second, the King paused out of shock. That sealed his fate. Arms extended, Ronja drove him back and gave him one final shove.

Something clattered onto the ground. Ronja looked down. In front of her feet, surrounded by droplets of red, was the amulet. It twinkled wickedly up at her. Then, at the sound of his labored breathing, she looked up.

A blood-soaked tip now jutted out from his chest where the amulet used to be. The Pirate King had been impaled on one of the spikes that the mast had pushed up. Still choking out gasps, he reached down for the amulet. Ronja stepped forward and, with a firm kick, sent him further down the spike. Then she waited and watched until the sputtering died down and no more noise came from the slumped body. Some part of her was coursed with dread, expecting his head to come up. She held her breath. And when she could hold it no longer, he still hadn't moved.

He was dead. The Pirate King was dead. Ronja took a step back and felt her heel come down on something hard. It was the amulet. For a second, she stared at it. The tiny piece of metal seemed to whisper to her, beckon her. It offered her temptations, promised to ease her pain. But just looking at it reminded her of _him_.

Uttering a cry of disgust, she kicked it and sent it flying into the water. At that moment, Ronja realized she was free.

* * *

Water was squeezed out from under the belly of the boat as he landed. The vessel rocked from the impact of the witcher's landing. He heard shouts from the boat's current occupants. Most were pirates cornering what was left of the king's warriors. Steel flashed and bodies disappeared into the water.

"Take us there!" Andryk commanded to the remaining warriors, pointing his dripping sword towards the tangled flagships. The small, ragged boat skimmed the water. As they drew closer to the ships, Andryk spotted something out of the corner of his eye. From behind stagnant ships, one came rushing towards them. Alarmed, Andryk called a warning back towards the helmsman.

"Got no time to slow down!" the helmsman shouted back. He came around the wheel. "Get ready to jump, lads!"

"Ye can't be ser—," Andryk began, but the warriors were already jumping from their boat onto the bigger ship. They clung onto a layer of netting that draped across the hull and clambered up. Andryk quickly shut his mouth, sheathed his sword, and followed. His boots scraped uselessly against the slick wood, but his hands caught onto the netting. Below him, the front half of their boat shattered upon impact.

Andryk hauled himself up to the deck. It was already alive with battle. The effect that the crumpling flagships had on morale was amazing—even though the pirates were in greater numbers, they were systematically being cut down.

Dodging past the swung swords and moving bodies, Andryk ran straight for the wheel. The pirate there saw him approaching and made to draw his weapon. Before he could, the witcher's steel sword found him through the spokes of the wheel. Andryk pulled back his blade. The body fell, and he assumed its place. He turned the ship towards the Palanquin. The bow of the ship cut through the masses of its own ranks as it headed for its queen ship.

As the Black Smoke continued to move, she dragged the Palanquin along. The strain on the smaller ship was tearing a large split down its center. Andryk wondered if she was still on the Palanquin. The only way to be sure was to board the collapsing ship.

The vessel looked as though it would crumple under his weight. Despite his better judgment, Andryk placed a foot on the rail and braced himself as they approached the Palanquin. Their ship brushed by with a hair's length between them. Andryk launched himself from one deck to the other. He stumbled as he landed, and suddenly the wood under him gave away. Andryk felt himself plunge into sudden weightlessness. His hands flew up and gripped the edge of the deck. He planted his forearms firmly down on the wooden planks and pulled himself up. Underneath him, the crumpling ship groaned as its own weight slowly tore it apart.

Andryk staggered across the deck, teetering around the unstable planks. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and jumped back as a large chunk of the Black Smoke came crashing down in front of him. He danced past the barbs that had stuck up. As he came around the chunk of dark merlot wood, he found himself confronted by someone familiar—the Pirate King.

The blade leaped into Andryk's hand and was poised within a second. He listened to the pounding of his heart and realized that the man in front of him was no longer a threat. The Pirate King's head was lolled to the side and the dark, bloodstained point protruded from his chest like a stake. Andryk heard no breathing or the beating of his heart. Still, he approached the Pirate King wearily and gave his shoulder a cautious prod.

No, Andryk wouldn't be tricked. He may be dead now, but the bastard was bound to come back like he always did. Andryk whirled around, scouring the shattering deck. He had to find Ronja. Where was she?

Looking down, Andryk caught sight of the crimson stains around his feet. Blood, and some of it diverged into a trail that led elsewhere. Andryk felt himself grow frantic as he followed the scuffed red marks and drops. Ronja was hurt.

The tracks led to the back of the ship where the captain's quarters were. The mast had fallen on top of, but not through it. As Andryk hurried closer, he heard another telltale groan and rebalanced himself as the ship tilted even further. When everything settled, he pushed open the doors.

The vanity had disappeared under the collapsed ceiling where the mast had hit. The dresser now lay in a ruin of splinters and clothes where it had hit the wall. The floor was zigzagged with cracks.

"Are you here to kill me?" Her soft voice came from the corner. Andryk found her sitting against what was left of the bed. The rest had been forced through the wall. Very little of her blouse was still white—the rest was soaked heavily with blood. She watched him, cradling her chest as though she were holding something precious against it.

Andryk realized the blade was still in his hand and lifted it. He let it slide back into its sheath with a defining thump. She didn't move. He took a step towards her.

"Get out."

He froze. "I won't hurt ye."

"Then you're no use to me." Her voice was cold, authoritative. "Get out."

"Lass, yer not makin' any sense," Andryk said as he crossed the unstable floor, ignoring the threatening creaks that came from under his boots. "Come on, we have te get out o'here."

Suddenly, Ronja pulled in closer to herself. "Stop!" she cried. Then, in a firmer voice, she continued, "If you're too much of a coward to end me yourself, then at least turn around and let the ship do it. Andryk, I said _stop!"_ He didn't until he was knelt in front of her. He put a hand on her cheek, but she pushed it away and shook her head. Andryk noticed that her hand was covered in blood. "Look what I've done! Look what I've done to you!"

"It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter? Andryk, I'm messed up!" Her breathing was growing haggard. Andryk didn't know exactly how much blood she'd lost, but he knew he needed to get her somewhere to dress her up. But if he tried to take her away now, she might struggle and worsen the bleeding. "Even now, I feel attached to him. He's dead now, and I still… I still… I'm messed up."

"He was a parasite," Andryk told her. "Ye finally ripped him off. It'll feel bad; ye'll feel like ye still need him, but ye don't. Yer free. If that emptiness comes backs, ye latch onte me, aye? Drain whatever ye need te feel whole again." She shook her head, but Andryk cupped her hands in his. Her skin felt sickeningly slick. "Ye'll be fine."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"I am."

Her hand turned over and squeezed his. Andryk pulled her up. He matched her pace as she limped with him. They exited the cabin. Andryk felt the sun and the salty breeze hit his face as soon as they were out. He heard the clash of battle carry over the water and the roars of men that were quickly joined by others like the howling of wolves. In a few more hours, the battle would be over. Andryk had made it out with something better with revenge. Freya was watching over them on this day.

Had she really, Andryk would curse her until the end of his days for what she did next. If the goddess truly orchestrated what occurred on that day, then she revealed to the witcher her darker side.

Underneath his feet, Andryk felt the ship do something he didn't expect—it _shivered_. He heard a rapid, metallic clacking like chattering teeth. Then, a deafening crash boomed out behind him.

Looking back on that day, Andryk cursed everything he did following that crash. Every little thing he'd done had been a mistake. Those mistakes were responsible for what happened to her.

Andryk should've kept going, leading her in tow until they were safe. How could he have known? How could he could he have foreseen that in the split second it took for him to look back over his shoulder at the source of the noise, what happened next would forever be embedded in his mind? The sharp knives of memory would never let him rest.

He looked back.

The weakening structure of the ship and the heavy weight of the mast had finally forced it through the captain's quarters, crushing it entirely. It was then Ronja, in that fleeting instance, noticed something that Andryk didn't.

Her hand slipped away. Open palms struck him and broke his footing. He stumbled and turned just in time to see the deck give out from underneath her. Her fall was stopped abruptly by the jagged ends of the hole stabbing into her waist like the teeth of a beast.

Her breath came out in a hollow rattle that fiercely reminded Andryk of a person being speared through the gut. Ronja put her hands down on the splintering deck and despairingly tried to pull herself up. She screeched as every little movement dragged the jagged points through her body.

Break through the wood. Widen the hole enough to pull her out. Comfort her. He could have done any of those things. But at that moment, Andryk didn't know what to do.

He tried to go to her. Some unknown force kept him from doing so, playing sadistic games with him. The moment Andryk took a step, part of the deck flung up and knocked him aside. With his whole body against the deck, he felt the shudders as the ship finally ripped itself apart.

He heard her screaming. "Don't let me die! Andryk, don't let me die!" He pushed himself up. The cracks underneath him yawned open. Andryk fell through the deck, hitting the floor of the hold as splinters rained over him.

"Andryk, please!" The deck fell into the water, and she disappeared with it.

 _"Karina!"_

He scrambled up to his feet and stumbled, smashing a knee down onto the floor. In a desperate half-crawl, he scrabbled over to the edge of the broken ship. He only paused for a second before diving in. The cold water slapped his face. Adrenaline pumped through his body.

The water was clear as glass—beautiful, really. It was so transparent, he could see every single etching of terror in her face. Eyes wide, brows furrowed, mouth tightened into a final attempt to keep what little air was left in.

Andryk poured everything he had into his strokes, shooting through the water with amazing speed. But it wasn't enough. The chunk of ship that trapped her body in its jagged clutch dragged her down faster than he could keep up with. Andryk pulled himself further and further away from the light, but he watched her face shrink into the darkness. An arm was extended up towards him. He could still hear her pleading in his head.

Pressure was building up in his chest, but he refused to relent. He refused even when she finally disappeared into the depths. He refused when the bubbles drifted up from the blackness that told him she didn't have much time left. He refused even when the edges of his vision began creeping in and a shrill ringing filled his ears.

He could have sworn it was her screaming.

* * *

Pulling corpses out of the water was a harrowing task, but the dead needed to be returned to their families and be sent off properly. His eyes scanned the water, trying to differentiate the floating bodies. Pull out fellow warriors, leave the pirate filth for the drowners.

Cleaning up at the dusk of battle didn't just mean hauling up bodies. There were men stranded in the water. And depending on who they were, they'd be offered an arm to be pulled up with or the point of a spear thrust through them.

He was watching a few of the others help a man over the edge of the boat when suddenly that… _thing_ perked up and started making a racket. It raced to the bow of the ship, propping its paws against the boat's rim. He too hurried to the bow to see what it was clamoring about.

There was a man floating in the water. He didn't recognize him, but he knew the man wasn't a pirate. The man floated face up. He saw the ringlets and exquisite work on the man's armor. And when he saw the two sword hilts peeking from over the shoulder, he realized it was him—the witcher.

The dog-like creature howled. He turned and called for others to come and help pull the witcher into the boat. It took three of them to fish him out. When the witcher lay on the floor of the boat, they all figured the poor bastard had drowned. Then the creature hurried up to the witcher and licked the water from his face. He finally stirred and opened those strange eyes. They looked glazed, as though he were opening them for the first time in a long time. And then, as he watched, some unnatural fire seemed to light the witcher's eyes. He sprang up with vigor that startled them all. Like a madman, he dragged himself towards the edge of the boat and tried pulling himself back over into the water. They all jumped back to their senses quick enough to restrain him.

Something seemed to possess the witcher. It was like Freya herself was trying to pull him into the water, given the strength he struggled with. Then he began shouting with a voice that sounded so utterly broken.

"She's still down there! I've got te go back! I've got te save her!"

He didn't know what the witcher was hollering about. Perhaps the stress of battle had gotten to him—he'd seen many a warrior fall victim to that kind of sickness.

The witcher's crazed spell lasted only for a minute, but to him it felt much longer. Holding back the witcher almost seemed a crime, the way he struggled and pleaded to the waves to return someone. But that person never appeared. Finally, he quieted down, and his silence was worse than his screams.

Claws scrabbled against the hull. He looked and saw the creature climbing back onto the boat. He hadn't even noticed that it'd jumped out. Something was in its mouth. It looked like a piece of jewelry. A necklace, maybe. As it passed him, he caught sight of a pendent that looked to be a gold skull. The creature trotted over to the witcher and offered it to him. Still deathly silent, the witcher took it and crumpled it in his hand. He noticed the witcher' s trembling, white knuckles.

* * *

The crisp, sweet scent of lemon billowed over him. It held undertones of fresh mint. He breathed in, welcoming it in. Yet something about it hollowed him out.

He turned in the bed, listening to the creaks of the ship settling and the slapping of water as it cut through the water. Above it all, he heard footsteps. Soft as whispers, they approached his door. The handle turned. The scent became stronger. He tried to turn and see her as he wanted to remember her—with her loose white blouse swaying gently around her hips.

He couldn't see her at all, but he felt her there. She was sitting at the edge of his bed, pausing to watch him with a soft smile. Then she scooted further in until she was nestled next to him. She tucked her legs underneath herself, and he longed to run his hands along them. But she wasn't there.

No, she was there. His side slowly grew warm as she appeared. Slowly, she was returning to him. Now she was a blur, as though he were peering at her through alcohol-dulled eyes. But she was there—her outline was becoming clearer. He could almost feel her hand resting on his knee. She was saying something to him, and he strained to listen. Just a little bit more, a little bit more and he'd finally be able to—.

The knocks were so sharp, so jarring, that his whole body flinched. He opened his eyes, struggling to breath. The heartbreak rushed in like cold water, burning his chest. She was so close! Just a little more and he would've been able to see her again. It was the only way he ever would.

It was then Andryk realized the knocking was still there. Then, the door opened, and for a moment Andryk felt a glimmer of hope that maybe he hadn't woken up just yet.

"Addie, you doing all right?"

His heart dropped. He didn't answer, and instead squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to go back. He needed to see her again.

"You've been kipping all day, mate. Come on out; some fresh air would do you good."

"Every day," Andryk grumbled, "I bust me ass tryin' te save folks from monsters. Sloshin' through rain and mud and sleet. Danglin' meself in front o'death. Can't I have one day? One fuckin' day? Just let me sleep."

There was hesitation, and then the door shut gently. Andryk closed his eyes. Maybe this time…

* * *

 _I hear you at the door_

 _Footsteps on the floor_

 _But you're not here no more_

 _What hurts the most_

 _Is sleeping with your ghost_

"Ghost"—Mat Kearney


	34. Chapter 34 - Done

The guild noticed it immediately. Silence settled over the keep like a hollow chill. But it seemed like they could do nothing for him—Andryk shut everyone out. Even Aegis could be seen wandering through the halls on her own, her scrawny tail dangling limply behind her.

Theila never liked seeing any of the young witchers in distress. Even worse, so close was the grandmaster's bond to his pupils that their suffering transferred over to him. She was tempted to peer into Andryk's mind to find the source of his pain, but kept herself to her long-standing vow to restrict the use of those intrusive spells.

It wasn't just that. A part of her was afraid of what she would find. It was something that broke down _Andryk,_ of all people.

The grandmaster didn't need magic to see into Andryk's mind. All it took was one passing glance, and he could catch a glimpse into the red-haired witcher's troubles. Theila often marveled at his seemingly effortless ability to do so. At the same time, she wondered how many times Undevar saw things he didn't want to.

Undevar consulted her about it one day as they sat in his study. He had invited her in under the pretense of simply enjoying a bit of afternoon tea, though Theila suspected this was his underlying motive all long. As she guided the steam from her cup into lazy spirals, she noticed that the grandmaster had grown silent. He had _that_ look on his face. Theila had spent enough years on the road with him to know what that look meant. Undevar was about to divulge something that he had been brooding over for a while. Never, in all the times she'd been graced by that foreboding look, had it been anything pleasant.

This time, he stretched the silence a little too long. It was growing unpleasant. Theila lowered her hand and the wispy spiral broke apart. "Something you want to talk about?" she goaded.

Instead of answering, Undevar turned his mug so that its handle was parallel with the edge of his desk. He tucked his hands under his chin, and then quickly took them out to give the mug a refining adjustment. He cleared his throat softly as he examined the mug for a second, and then shifted it again. Theila felt as though her head were on the verge of popping as she watched him. Before he could reach out to give another nitpicky adjustment, Theila held out her hand. The mug shot away from Undevar and came to a rest across the desk. "Something you want to talk about?" she repeated.

He stood. Theila was concerned. Rarely was Undevar this fidgety. "It is guilt that plagues the boy," he began. Theila leaned back in her armchair. "A very corrosive emotion."

"It is."

"And heartbreak," Undevar continued. "I think he's lost someone. Who and how, I do not know."

She knew the grandmaster well enough to know that he was babbling, stalling for time. "Where are you going with this?" she demanded.

"When a man falls into despair, he can either pick himself up or allow it to fester," Undevar said. "I think Andryk has chosen the latter. He'll drive himself into ruin if he keeps it up. I don't want him to fall over the brink and do something rash." He came up beside Theila and leaned on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed. Theila didn't like the way he stared at her. Those narrow pupils in their amber pools seemed devoid of any compassion. It made him look like he did when they'd first met.

"Do you remember the summer of 988? The… incident?"

Theila's skin prickled at the memory. "Yes," she approached cautiously.

"You helped me get past it."

This time, the sorceress only gave him a wordless nod.

"Do you think you could…?" He trailed off. There was no need for further explanation.

Theila laced her fingers together and pressed them against her lips. Her eyes focused on the cup in front of her, watching the thin plumes of steam snake from the rim. No wonder Undevar had been so uneasy. What he was asking of her was simply…

"It's not a pleasant experience," she said, lowering her hands back down.

"I know." Undevar pushed away from the desk. "But it's better than letting him endure his inner demons."

Theila sighed and rose. "I'll do it," she confirmed, "on the condition that he agrees too."

"Aye, I'll tell him."

"Tell him _everything._ What it's like. What he'll feel."

The grandmaster nodded and left the study. Theila stepped out and headed for the garden to the guild's Place of Power. If they were going to go through with the grandmaster's plan, she was going to need every last bit of strength it could give her.

The sun had settled into a fiery orange next on the horizon when she returned to the keep. The door to the study, she noticed as she approached, was closed. There were muffled voices coming from within. Theila paused just outside the door.

"And I can forget it all?"

"Theila can remove any memory you choose at the end of the process."

"Ye said it would hurt."

"Not physically, laddie. It wouldn't be so bad if it did, if I'm to be honest."

"What do ye mean by that?"

Theila pushed the door open and stepped in. Undevar was seated behind his desk, and Andryk stood across from him with his arms crossed. The red-haired witcher turned to her confrontationally. "What are ye tryin' te do te me?" he asked. There was a biting accusation in his voice.

"Laddie," Undevar said in a warning tone. Andryk dropped his arms and looked away.

"It's a memory recalling spell," Theila explained, beginning very softly. "It is a kind of… well, calling it therapy would be like calling a flogging a massage. But it can help you."

"I don't need memories recalled," Andryk snapped. "Rememberin's the problem. I want forget it all."

"The mind infamously taints what you remember. Your memories of what troubles you now sit in a raw place in your head, saturated with pain and guilt." She glanced at Undevar. "What I do is have you relive them as though you were experiencing them for the first time—untainted. It's like having you face your fears. You need to confront your pain."

"And then in the end…"

"In the end, if you can let them go, I can erase every trace of them from your mind."

"Then let's just get this over with."

Theila shot another glance at Undevar. The grayed witcher gave her a small dip of his head. Theila indicated towards the armchair that she herself had sat in hours earlier. Andryk sat. The sorceress hesitated.

"I'll need to restrain you."

"What fer?"

"Like your grandmaster said, it might… hurt. You might… feel the need to thrash around." Theila struggled with her words. Her bedside manner wasn't exactly the best, which was why she never pursued the healing arts back at the academy. "It's so you don't hurt yourself. And it's for our safety too."

She saw doubt cross the young witcher's eyes. Then, he snuffed it out and laid his hands on the armrests. Theila cast a spell that shackled Andryk's wrists down with glowing rings. As she stepped around to face Andryk, she heard Undevar rise from the desk and walk over.

"Take a deep breath for me, Andryk," Theila instructed. She raised her hands, palms facing outwards and fingers relaxed, in front of her. Closing her eyes, she said, "Still your mind." She began whispering her enchantment. It was a complex spell—requiring large amounts of power but minimal movement. She drew in power from the air, the ground, and the walls, with little flexes of her fingers. Her chanting never ceased for more than the second-long pauses she needed to draw breath.

She felt her own mind starting to stretch, funnel away from her own body as she reached out to Andryk's. His mind was motionless like a pool, with the occasional tick of nervousness sending ripples across its surface. Theila gently reached out and touched the surface, pausing as she sent more ripples racing across—turbulence that agitated the pool. She waited until his mind stilled again before reaching further in. The surface had been calm, but everything beyond was a raging mess. There was a lot of work to do.

In the corporeal world, Theila let out a slow breath. Undevar watched her closely, his concerned eyes shifting from the sorceress to Andryk. They were both hauntingly still. The room was completely silent.

Suddenly, Andryk flinched. Undevar's eyes snapped to the young witcher. Then, Theila's brow tensed.

She'd found it—the source of his pain. But she was somewhere in the middle of the sequence of memories. Before her, she saw a dark-haired woman sitting on a bed and gripping a glass bottle by the neck. Theila flipped back, turning through the pages to reach the beginning. This woman… who was she? What happened to her?

Theila found the start. She raised the memory, only the size of a book's page, and stretched it out. She pulled it wider, forcing it to fill Andryk's mind. Beyond the memory, she saw the surface that surrounded them begin tremble.

The casted shackles glowed brighter when the struggling started. Andryk's breathing became heavy. His shoulders tensed as he fought against the restraints.

An inn… they were in an inn. There were so many voices, so loud. One part of the memory was especially strong—the smell. Lemon, Theila recognized, and something minty. Perfume? Andryk's mind was trying hard to stifle the memory. Theila forced it to keep running. Now he had the woman, the same one as before, against the wall. He was kissing her. The surface of Andryk's mind shook with sharp waves like that of a puddle's next to a galloping horse.

Andryk let out a low groan. He jolted back against the armchair so forcefully it jerked back. Undevar hurried over and gripped the back of the chair. Each shout and whimper that came from the young witcher stabbed him. He longed to use Axii to calm the boy down, but knew he couldn't interfere.

It was night. They were in a small, dark room. Around them came creaks and groans. They were on a ship. Footsteps, soft on the floor. The scent of lemon. A creak of the door. The woman appeared. Her clothes billowed around her.

The restraints shone so brightly, they lit up the furthest corners of the study. Andryk's wrists were nearly off the armrests. The red-haired witcher unclenched his jaw to scream, "Stop!" He howled as though he were being tortured.

The woman was on top of him. He was looking up at her, their faces so close. Theila's hands trembled. The strain was becoming too much. His mind was fighting with her tooth and nail.

Suddenly, everything shattered. She was thrust from Andryk's mind. Her eyes snapped opened and her legs gave out from underneath her. Before she could fall, Theila felt herself being enveloped by a pair of arms that cradled her protectively. Drawing in shaky breaths, she leaned heavily against Undevar's chest.

"I… I couldn't do it."

"Don't blame yourself."

Theila gently pulled herself away and turned to Andryk. She removed his restraints. His red hair was matted against his damp forehead, and his breaths were laborious. His eyes flitted as though he were seeing things in front of them. Finally, he seemed to realize he was sitting in the grandmaster's study. He looked at Theila, and the sorceress found rage in his eyes.

"I can still remember," he said quietly. He sounded like he was on the verge of crying or screaming. "Ye told me ye could take it away. Why haven't ye?"

"You're still too attached," Theila tried explaining. "I can't remove them."

 _"Can't?"_

"We can try again," Theila assured. "Now that you've experienced it once, maybe next time will—." She broke off when Andryk flew into her face. She hadn't expected him to move so quickly.

"No!" he shouted, his voice scathing. "Enough o'yer magic! What have ye done te me? Fuck ye! Fuck yer bullshite magic! What kind o'bullshite sorceress can't even—?"

Movement flashed before her eyes that Theila couldn't catch. The grandmaster moved with a speed that was unaffected by his age. He grabbed the young witcher by the throat and threw him down. The wooden legs of the armchair screeched as they raked across the floor, leaving deep marks on the smooth stone. For a moment, Andryk was trapped in stunned silence. He didn't rise from the armchair. The grandmaster stood before him. Undevar, in that moment, seemed to tower to the ceiling. His breathing came out deeply and forcefully.

Finally, Undevar uttered, "You were given a chance to be pulled out of your little pit of misery and you refused to take it. You even scorned the one trying to help you." He gave a pause that seemed to stretch for eternity. _"Out!"_ Even Theila flinched at his sudden boom. Rarely had she ever heard him raise his voice. "Get out of my sight, you miserable cretin!"

The last look on Andryk's face before he got up and disappeared from the study with a slam of the door broke Theila's heart. Undevar turned and stormed to the window, trying to control his breathing.

"You didn't have to yell at him," she said.

Undevar whirled around. "Don't coddle him!" he snapped. "He's not a child! He's a witcher and the way he's been acting is pitiful! He disgraces every witcher that has ever walked this earth!"

"What does it matter if he's a witcher? He's still a person, no matter what you and your damned alchemists have pumped into him!" Theila shot back. "He's still got a heart! A soul! He'll still feel through those, no matter how you try to numb him down!" Undevar looked as though he was going to say something, but Theila beat him to it. "I saw into his mind, Undevar! I know what's hurting him. And let me ask you this—do you remember Ban Gleán? What you did there when you thought I'd been killed?" She paused to let her words sink in. The grandmaster had the decency to remain silent. "If you want to talk about disgrace, maybe you should've started there!" She turned and stormed out of the study.

* * *

He never liked being on bad terms with the sorceress. Maybe it was his age turning him into a sap, but he'd grown accustomed to expecting warm olive eyes to grace his and a gentle touch on his arm whenever he saw her. Now, for the next few days, all he received was a stern look and accusing silence. Theila's cold indifference became grating like tree bark to his old heart.

Undevar remembered the days when his heart was still tough and arrogant. He had been able to endure her cold shoulder for much longer. "Stubborn jackass of a bear" had been the nicknamed she had not so affectionately bestowed onto him. But now, after too many centuries spent with the sorceress, he had come to realize that she was more often than not in the right whenever they argued.

This time was no exception. Theila was right—he'd been too harsh. Undevar reflected on the words he had thrown on Andryk. They sounded like something his predecessor would have said. That very thought sent a chill running through the old witcher's spine.

Undevar headed towards Andryk's room. No doubt the boy was holed up in there to sulk like he'd done all winter so far. In less than a month, the cold would begin to ease up and mark the start of another hunting season. The grandmaster hoped he would be able to make amends with Andryk and help him through his torment before then.

His steps slowed when he heard hushed voices coming from the boy's room. He heard Andryk talking, though he spoke too softly for Undevar to make out the words. At first, he assumed that Andryk was talking to Aegis. Then he heard a responding voice.

Undevar stopped. The voice wasn't Kozin's or Oslan's. He didn't recognize it at all.

He strained his ears. The grandmaster caught the words "done" and "in a week." A creeping feeling of dread snaked across his skin as he hurried to the door. The voices had hushed by the time he reached it and knocked.

The door opened. Andryk appeared on the other side. Immediately, Undevar's eyes swept over the young witcher's head to look for the second person. No one else, from what he saw, was in the room.

"Grandmaster?" he heard Andryk say.

Right. Undevar quickly reminded himself of what he'd come here for. "Laddie, I know this winter has been tough on you. I can't take back what I said before, but I—." His words stopped abruptly when he looked back down and saw what was in Andryk's eyes. The boy looked _happy_.

"Grandmaster, ye don't need te be apologizin'," Andryk replied. "Ye were right. No use in mopin' around all the time."

Dread returned to Undevar. Again, he glanced into the room. He felt Andryk start to slide past him. "If ye don't mind, Grandmaster, I'm off te go find Aegis." The boy had only taken a few steps when Undevar spoke out.

"Who were you talking to?"

"What?"

"Were you talking to someone? Right before I knocked?" He turned around and stared Andryk directly in the eyes.

"No," was the reply.

Undevar kept his face straight. The boy was lying. He was about to insist that Andryk tell him what was going on when suddenly a voice came from down the hall. "Grandmaster!" Unfortunately, Undevar broke his gaze away from Andryk to see Brimir coming down the hall towards them. When he looked back, Andryk was already hurrying away.

* * *

Kozin brushed his hands across his tunic. The dust came off in visible puffs. The horsehair still clung onto the fabric. Kozin picked a few off, and then gave up. A whole day had been spent in the smelly, musty stables thanks to the masters. Another season was about to begin and _someone_ needed to prepare the horses and polish the tack. Kozin was no longer an apprentice, but they still delighted in ordering him around every chance they got.

"Oiye, I just cleaned these!" came an irritated voice next to him. Baldric scraped his boot along the ground, trying to get rid of the manure that stuck to it. The masters hadn't spared the twins either.

"Why're you all wound up? Thought you were used to bein' full of shite," Bodraas sneered. His brother glared.

"Fixin' to shove a fistful of this stuff in your mouth, Bod. It ought to feel right at home in there."

"All right," Kozin grumbled. "Settle down, children."

"Don't you start actin' high and mighty," Bodraas said. "Master Galon told us about somethin' you did once."

"Aye," Baldric chimed in. "Couldn't get much out—he was chortlin' so hard I thought ale was fixin' to shoot out of his nose. Managed to get the word 'sirens' out, though."

Shit, not that. Kozin shrugged and feigned cluelessness. "Must've gotten me confused for someone else."

"Nay, he said it was something Andryk wrangled you into doing."

"Speaking of him," Bodraas said. "Was meaning to ask what happened to him. He's not been his usual self."

As if that couldn't be more obvious. When Andryk wasn't locked up in his room, he was staring across the sea like he'd lost himself somewhere out there. Kozin shrugged again and tried to ease the tension by picking more hair from his clothes. "Just a bit of winter blues. We all get it at some point or another," he lied.

"Never heard of that before."

Before Kozin could answer, a blessed distraction ended their conversation. Tiny hoof beats tapped the ground as a tiny, white figure emerged from the stables and made straight for Kozin. Tillie looked up at the black-haired witcher with what he supposed was a smile, though her mouth was stuffed full of hay. She wasn't even chewing it. Something told him she was trying to offer it.

Bodraas stooped down to ruffle the lamb on the head, which sent her little tail into motion. Still, she continued to fixate her round-eyed gaze on Kozin. Well, she had thankfully stopped the conversation in its tracks. The least he could do was show a little gratitude. Kozin knelt down and reached out to take the hay when suddenly he heard barking coming from within the keep. He immediately retracted his hand and stood.

"First the bleatin' and now the barkin'," Baldric sighed. "Can't imagine what it's like living with a noisy, rowdy animal."

"I can," Bodraas said with a wicked grin towards his brother. Baldric bent down, scooped a bit of manure from his boot, and slapped Bodraas with it.

Kozin ignored the quarreling twins and raced towards the keep. He'd never heard Aegis bark like this before. She sounded frantic, agitated. As his boots thundered up the steps, Kozin couldn't help but assume that something horrid had happened to Andryk to make her sound like this.

He found the dog snarling and snapping outside of Andryk's door. _At_ his door. She didn't seem to notice the witcher as he approached. Her maw was wrinkled and her mismatched teeth were bared. A low, throaty growl rumbled deep in her throat before she exploded into another round of baying.

Kozin heard a terrified bleat behind him. He hadn't even noticed that Tillie had followed him. He turned and saw the lamb pelting away. Tufts of hay trailed behind her.

Turning back to the door, Kozin ventured, "Addie?" There was no answer. Aegis barked again. Kozin shushed her. The dog quieted down, but continued to snarl. "Addie!" Kozin called louder. "Stop ignoring your mutt and open the damned door!" Still no answer. Kozin stepped forward and turned the doorknob. He pushed the door open.

The room was empty. Aegis rushed in, and the quickly jumped back with a yelp. Kozin glanced down at her. She was growling at the bed. Kozin followed her gaze and saw something lying on the pillow. It was a small, simple hand mirror. Kozin spotted the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from under it. He pulled it out. It was a small note with only a few words written on it.

 _For your beard_.

* * *

 _After you, could there be anyone else?_

 _Torn in two_

 _Nowhere left to run in this hell_

 _Now let's call it time_

 _No more lies_

 _I don't wanna feel this way_

 _Who's the one to blame_

 _When you're heart's already torn_

 _From the inside out?_

"After You"—Atmosphere


	35. Chapter 35 - The Nature of Business

Due to his seclusion, Andryk's disappearance took a while to be noticed. When the guild did notice, it was the common assumption that the red-haired witcher had simply left the keep early. Of course, a moment to think would point out the flaw in that logic. True, his swords were gone, but Aegis was still on the island. And if her presence alone wasn't indicative, her behavior certainly was. The poor pup was beside herself in restless panic. She often paced by Andryk's barren room as though checking to see if he'd returned. For the remainder of the month, he never did.

Winter had long since ended, but Kozin remained on the island. He had to know what happened to his brother. Andryk had simply vanished—something that, to Kozin, seemed impossible. Oslan stayed too.

Kozin showed the hand mirror to Theila. She examined it, but was only able to tell him what he didn't want to hear—that it was just a simple hand mirror. Nothing was strange about it aside from its mysterious appearance.

He thought back to the note that had accompanied it. Kozin asked Theila if she knew of a mage who doubled as a merchant.

"That's a very odd question. I know some mages that sell potions or trinkets, but they don't fit your description," Theila replied, placing her hands on her hips as she mulled over his question with a small frown. "I'm afraid no one rings a bell. But you must keep in mind that I don't know every magic user in existence, just as you don't know every witcher who currently walks the Path."

"Why do you ask?" Undevar said. As of late, the grandmaster's face looked especially aged. Kozin had heard vague mentions of an altercation that had happened between him and Andryk. No doubt Undevar felt he was partially to blame for the red-haired witcher's disappearance.

Kozin was still searching for an answer when Oslan appeared in the doorway of the study. "Got something you might be interested in hearing," he announced. He looked past the doorframe and beckoned someone to go through. A small girl with two short braids shuffled in, her chin tucked shyly towards her chest. Kozin didn't recognize her, but she was dressed as one of the guild's housekeepers. Rarely were they seen, moving around as though invisible, though it was their work that kept the keep in top shape.

 _Of course,_ Kozin thought. _Who better to see what happened than the eyes of an unnoticed housekeeper?_

The girl was obviously very unaccustomed to the amount of attention that was now focused on her. She kept her chin tucked and her eyes glued at the ground in front of her. Nervousness kept her from speaking. Kozin felt tightness in his chest as though he were holding his breath. He was on the verge of telling the girl to hurry up and talk when Oslan placed a hand on her shoulder. Gently, he coaxed her into raising her eyes.

"Tell them what you told me," he prompted. "You heard something coming from Andryk's room that day, didn't you?"

The girl nodded, keeping her gaze fixated on the blond witcher. "An awful racket," she peeped to him. "Heard shoutin'. Someone was mad. Hollerin'. Said, 'that's not what I asked for.' Someone replied. Told him it was. Felt an awful chill in the air. It scared me terribly." Her courage faltered and she dipped her head back down.

"That's all you heard?" Oslan asked. The girl nodded. The grandmaster thanked the girl and dismissed her. Theila pondered quietly. Kozin stared at the hand mirror that had been left on a table by the window. _That's not what I asked for_.

"I heard him talking to someone as well," he heard the grandmaster say softly. Kozin took out his pipe and rolled it around in his hand. The clues were starting to piece together into something ugly in his mind. He reached forward and took the mirror.

"Come on, Os," Kozin said as he turned around and headed for the door. He hesitated only briefly to say, "Grandmaster. Theila," and disappeared. Before Oslan trailed after him, he asked the sorceress to look after Arda.

* * *

Kozin filled Oslan on what he knew about a man who claimed to be a merchant of mirrors during the boat ride. After he was through explaining, Oslan replied, "Why didn't you tell the grandmaster? Theila? They could have helped us."

"They'll only fuss. Get in our way," Kozin answered. "Besides, this guy? Gave me that feeling you get in the back of your neck when the crickets suddenly stop chirping in the dead of night. The less people I have to worry about when I deal with him, the better."

"What makes you think he's from the Continent?"

"That's where I met him. It's a safe assumption."

There was a pause. Then, Oslan addressed the worrisome issue that was in both of their minds. "Ko, he knows where the guild is. How did he find it?"

"I don't know," Kozin answered hurriedly, looking out towards the ocean. "Thought he was a mage, but I'm not sure what he is anymore."

"And we're heading out to find him."

"Aye."

The conversation settled back to silence as both of the boat's occupants gazed over the water. Overhead, the sail flapped. The water hissed as it was thrown aside. Then, Oslan asked, "Where do we find him?"

"I don't know," Kozin said again, feeling frustratingly helpless. He just needed to get his feet back on land and think. For that reason, they were headed to Ard Skellig. Another part of their plan was to ask around and find out what really happened last year. Kozin needed to know what Andryk had asked for.

They couldn't have reached the island soon enough for Kozin's liking. The sun hadn't even set by the time they'd tethered the boat to the docks of Fyresdal. From there, they parted ways to gather information about the events of the previous year, and to see if anyone else had met a mysterious man who claimed to sell mirrors. They agreed to meet up in Fyresdal's modest inn at nightfall.

Kozin headed north towards Kaer Trolde, though he wondered how close he should let himself get to the king. On the way, he stopped at a tiny hamlet and asked around. The people who bothered talking to him told him that the king had killed most of the pirates late last summer, from what they heard. The hamlet was quite far from the bay where the battle had taken place, so they only knew what little word of mouth reached their ears. Kozin found his inquiries of the mirror merchant met with answers that were just as useless—he only received replies of people offering to sell him mirrors.

He left the hamlet and found a larger village. Slowly, the day ebbed away as he zigzagged from settlement to settlement. He didn't even make it to Kaer Trolde when the sky darkened and sent him back to Fyresdal. Kozin hadn't found his answers. He tried to preserve his hopes on the thought that perhaps Oslan had better luck.

Kozin led his horse to the stables himself, waving off the young stable hand who had automatically reached for the reins. There, he found Oslan's dapple mare already in her own stall, pulling at a hay net. Kozin put his bay horse into the neighboring stall. The mare regarded him with a flick of her ear before picking at the net again.

There were still plenty of patrons sitting at the tables. It was just the start of the "off-work" hours, so no one was drunk yet except for the few who had gotten a head start. Kozin spotted Oslan sitting in a corner and chatting with a keen barmaid. The girl was leaning on the table with one hand, the other resting on her hip, as bent a little towards the witcher with obvious interest. Oslan, on the other hand, kept his eyes focused on the tankard in front of him as he replied to her.

Kozin walked over to their table, pulling his pack over his head as he did. When he reached them, he tossed the pack onto the table with a satisfying thump. The barmaid jumped, looked up to see Kozin's deadpan glare, and scurried away.

"Thanks," Oslan muttered, straightening up in his seat.

"It'd be better if you learned yourself how to tell the lasses no."

"Ko, you obviously haven't been around women enough." Kozin wasn't exactly sure what Oslan meant by that. He pulled his sack towards him and rested an arm over it.

"Learned anything?" he elicited.

"An old mariner ate up most of my time telling me about a nightwraith spotted out at sea. Tore up nearly half of his crew before they managed to get away," Oslan said. He sighed and continued, "Was asking me for help on getting rid of her. I couldn't take it up with Addie still missing. It felt terrible turning him down, even if I told him I'd come back."

"Nightwraith over water?" Kozin muttered. "That's going to be a pain." Most of the wraiths he'd encountered were already too far gone to be assuaged, and he despised fighting them. Flighty, teleporting opponents were a pain in his rear. And on the water, he was only as mobile as his boat would allow. "Anything else?"

"I think I got some insight into what happened last year," Oslan said. "Met a lad who sailed with the king's men. He said he heard rumor that a witcher fought among them, though he didn't see the witcher. Couldn't get confirmation that it was Addie. He gave me a page from his logbook. Hold on—I left it in my saddlebag." Oslan stood and left the table to retrieve it.

Restlessness started to creep in not long after Oslan left. Kozin hated standing still at times like these—alone to be confronted by his thoughts. He opened his pack and, with a quick glance towards the rest of the inn, pulled out the hand mirror. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he inspected it. He studied everything from the handle, to the rim, to the back. He rubbed his thumb against the back of the mirror to check for any kind of invisible etching, though he already knew from past experience that there was none. Finally, he decided to look at the one thing he hadn't examined—the mirror itself.

Kozin raised the hand mirror to his face and saw his own eyes looking back at him. The small surface was only able to capture a small portion of his face. Kozin tilted the mirror this way and that, watching every bit of his face appear in the reflection. Finally, he let the mirror point towards the left of his face. In it, he saw his left eye, his left ear with its silver piercings, and the bustling activity just over his shoulder. A barmaid passed behind him, though he only saw her from the neck down.

He didn't know why he was fooling around like this. How much longer was Oslan going to take? Kozin was about to put the mirror down when suddenly he noticed a pair of eyes. They were watching him through the reflection. The one staring at him was a bald, unimpressive-looking man who leaned against the wall. Even the people around him didn't seem to notice him. Kozin's eyes immediately snapped to the small, inconspicuous pouch hanging from the man's neck.

He whirled around. The section of the wall he'd seen the man leaning on in the mirror was bare. Kozin searched among the people across the inn but didn't see him. He turned back and nearly choked on his own breath.

The man was sitting across from him, regarding him with a look of simple amusement. His hands were tucked under his chin, one hand wrapped over the other. For a few lingering seconds, they only regarded each other with stares—burning amber eyes to deep, impenetrable ones. Now face-to-face with the man, Kozin saw something. What was it? The man's nature? His true self?

Kozin had been calling this being a "man," but was now not quite sure the term fit. True, the pupils and irises of the eyes were human-like, but they did not belong to a person. Even in the vilest of characters, Kozin had seen some trace of a soul. But here, there was nothing—like a tide pool on the shore that was eerily devoid of life.

He wasn't a monster either, not even a sentient one. In those eyes, Kozin saw the ticking of cold, cruel calculations. The brewing of horrific machinations. Kozin had a sinking feeling that the scheme currently forming in that human-like head involved him.

The man's mouth was upturned in a casual smile, like he was seeing a dear childhood friend for the first time in ages. What was offsetting was that his eyes did not share the same emotion.

"This is no chance meeting."

So many feelings flew through Kozin's head at those words. So many questions. He wanted to stand, snatch the man by his collar, and give him a rough shake while demanding answers. Had he been in the keep? Did he leave the mirror? Where was Andryk?

What was he?

"I'll take your silence as agreement," the man continued, taking advantage of the witcher's speechlessness.

"How did you find me?"

"Find you? Let's not be so arrogant, my friend." He motioned a hand towards the mirror. "You found me."

"So you were the one who left this? For me?"

"I just happened to remember what you told me during our previous encounter. I'm very considerate, you know."

"You were in Andryk's—."

"Funny thing, this world," the man suddenly interrupted, slipping his hands from his chin. He held them out to beckon around the room, keeping his elbows on the table. "It's got so many rules dictating how it works. I'm not referring to those silly things your kings and councils scribble down on paper to keep humanity from returning to its basic, animalistic tendencies. I'm talking about the ones that pull the sun up into the sky and dip it back down. The ones that make things fall at different speeds. Even the ones that allow certain individuals to teleport around and zap things. Everything in this existence is dictated by rules. And I…" He pulled his arms out wide. Had he not been sitting, Kozin would've expected him to bow like a stage actor at the finale of his performance with a grand gesture like that. "… Am no different."

Had this been a performance, Kozin might've seen fit to reward the man's melodramatic speech with a slow, patronizing clap. But this was no stage show. Kozin was confronting a man that was connected to—probably even responsible for—his brother's disappearance. Or death. And that thought didn't please him at all.

His voice came out as a low growl. "What do you want?"

"This is about what _you_ want."

The reply, simple as it was, caught Kozin off guard. What he wanted? He'd come here to find Andryk. Kozin was about to voice that out loud when some fleeting instinct quickly caused him to bite down. However, the clenched jaw was all the man needed to see.

He leaned forward, and Kozin found himself entrapped by the man's suddenly carnivorous-like gaze. "Ah," he murmured. "So there _is_ something you want."

 _Get out_ , screamed a part of him—the part of him that wanted to live. Kozin tore himself away from the man's gaze with a sharp shake of his head. "Mirror—," he addressed coldly.

"Gaunter, if you please," he interrupted. "I think we're acquainted enough to be on a first name-basis, don't you think, Kozin?"

"Mirror," Kozin repeated, making sure his voice had a disrespectful bite to it. "I'm done talking to you. Keep your mirrors. Keep your wishes." He scraped the hand mirror across the table to the man, took his pack, and stood. "I've something important I need to do, and you're wasting my time."

He couldn't help but steal another look at the man's face before he stepped out of the bench and turned away. The man—Gaunter, he'd called himself—didn't look the least bit miffed at the witcher's brashness.

Kozin headed straight for the door. Something about being around Gaunter prevented him from thinking straight. He pushed open the door. A robin that had been roosting on the railing of the front steps startled and took off. It fluttered up diagonally across his path.

And then it stopped. Right in the air. Kozin stared at it, unsure of what had happened. Its tiny brown wings were still arched in mid-stroke, and the fur on its feathers was disheveled from the now-motionless wind.

But it wasn't just the robin. Kozin lowered his gaze and saw Oslan. A folded piece of paper was in one hand, the other hung loosely by his side. One foot was raised, caught in the middle of a step. Just like the robin, he had frozen completely.

Then, Kozin heard slow, leisurely footsteps come up behind him. "I wasn't done talking to you." Gaunter's voice had dropped its friendly tone. Kozin looked back and saw him walking closer, his hands tucked behind his back. Then, he raised one and gestured around. Kozin saw the inn patrons behind him. Each and every one had stopped as though the world had simply ceased to carry on. "What's your hurry, Kozin? Time is all there is." Without glancing at the witcher, he walked past. Kozin realized he was heading straight for Oslan.

"I've seen witchers from all schools," Gaunter remarked as he strolled up to Oslan, hands behind his back as though he were admiring a museum exhibit. "Most prefer agility over stability. Strike hard and fast—I can respect that. But Bear… Bear is different. Look at this!" He gave Oslan's chest a sudden smack with the back of his hand. Kozin's jaw twitched. "Bears wrap themselves in protective shells, encasing their bodies under carapaces of metal and leather. Not a soft spot in sight. Well…"

Gaunter pulled the bone dagger from Oslan's shoulder. He flipped it so that its handle pointed outwards. Pressing the pommel against Oslan's chin, he pushed the immobile witcher's head up. Pressure gathered in Kozin's chest as he watched. "… Not unless you know where to look."

Kozin saw the dagger flip again. The blade faced out. It was brought up to the exposed throat. The pressure burst.

 _"Stop!"_

It came out like a plea.

The blade hesitated, its point just pushing against the skin. Then, it retracted. "And there it is," Gaunter said softly. "No matter how tough the shell, there is always a soft spot." He turned back to Kozin, crossing his arms. Victory gleamed clearly in his eyes. _"Bhràithrean anns a 'Bhlàr,"_ he recited. "Brothers in battle. How poetic. Did you come up with it on your own?"

Kozin didn't answer. Not that Gaunter gave him a chance to anyway.

"These bonds you things choose to make, they tickle me." He gave a laugh that was so hauntingly cheery. "They make it so I don't even have to tip your head back to expose your throat. You do it for me." He raised his arm. Something jingled from the end of it. It was a Bear medallion. A pendant piece shared its chain.

"Is this what you wanted?"

Anger and fear drove Kozin's body forward even before he knew what was going on. He reached for the medallion—no, past it. For the man's collar. He planned to bunch it in his fist and stare the fucker in the depraved eyes while demanding to know how he'd gotten Andryk's medallion.

But his hands met with nothing. Gaunter was gone. He hadn't moved out of the way. One moment, he was there, sure as the sunrise. In the next instant—before Kozin even had a chance to blink—the air in front of him was empty.

"Keep your temper in check, dear witcher. This is a civilized conversation." He was standing off to the side down, tossing the bone dagger with a flick of his wrist and catching it.

"What have you done to him?" Kozin roared.

"He's not dead. Keep your voice down," Gaunter chided, as if speaking to a rowdy child.

"Then—."

"I simply offered him my wares," Gaunter explained. "That is the nature of you lot, isn't it? Always _wanting?_ We made a deal. Even shook on it."

"What did he ask for?"

"That, my dear Kozin, is confidential. I pride myself in being a good businessman, after all. Can't give away sensitive customer information to any old Joe who asks." At Kozin's responding glare, Gaunter continued, "But let me ask you this—what human trait is unquestionably the worst to ever befall man? What leads to his weakness and, ultimately, his destruction?"

"Greed," Kozin answered automatically.

"Wrong. Try again."

"Hubris."

"Not even close. Once more."

This time, Kozin hesitated before answering, "Ignorance?"

"Hardly," Gaunter dismissed with a snort. "Though by your responses, I say you've no shortage of ignorance yourself. Your answers are far too… paragon. The truth is perhaps a little too ugly for a mind like yours to accept. The worst thing to ever grace the trough that is the human mind? It's _love_. Don't you look at me like that. Deep down, I'm sure you know it's true. It's what brought you to me— _Bhràithrean anns a 'Bhlàr._ That strong, brotherly love. And…"

Gaunter raised the medallion, swinging it from side to side like a pendulum. "Poor, poor Andryk with his heart ravaged by love. It's what made him so weak, so easy to claim." Gaunter gave the medallion a firm swing, which sent it looping in a circle, before catching it in his palm. "Oh, but I haven't hurt him. Not yet. So what do you say, Kozin? Why don't you tell me what you want?"

Kozin's voice was heavy with defeat. "I want you to release any hold you have on Andryk. Bring him back."

"Don't you understand the nature of business? Nothing comes for free."

"Fine. I've told you what I want. What's your price?"

"You only have one thing that's of any value to me." Again, Gaunter's gaze grew hungry as he stepped closer to Kozin. He seemed to be staring _through_ the witcher's eyes—like a glutton eyeing a cake through a bakery window. Kozin forced his gaze away, looking at the ground.

"Well?" he heard Gaunter prompt. "I strike a hard bargain, don't I? I'll admit something to you, Kozin: your friend isn't who I want."

"Then why go through all the trouble? Why didn't you go straight for me? You didn't have to pull him into this."

"Like I said, this world is bound by rules and so am I. I need you to agree. That's also the nature of business—approval from both sides." Gaunter patted the medallion, which now hung mockingly around his neck. "Consider this collateral should you fail to accept my terms."

"Not really a deal then. More like blackmail."

"I'm still waiting for an answer, my friend. And my patience grows thin." The stark shift in his voice reinforced his words.

Kozin stalled, thinking frantically. He couldn't simply hand himself over like this. But at the same time, he couldn't forsake Andryk. At the moment, he wanted to curse the red-haired witcher for dragging them all into this mess. There was no time for that, not even in this frozen moment.

"First," Kozin began slowly. "I want a request."

"You've already told me what you want."

"Not just Andryk's freedom. Another request of my choosing."

Gaunter scowled, and this time he looked truly inhuman. "You're in no position to haggle."

"Am I not, Mirror?" Kozin challenged, happening upon some deep reserve of courage. "That is my offer. Take it or leave it."

"Then you leave your friend to doom and damnation."

"Take it or leave it."

Gaunter fell silent. His piercing eyes bore holes into Kozin, who fought to keep his thoughts from leaking out onto his face. He was bluffing, bluffing _hard_. But if he had read the signs right…

"Fine." The word dripped with acid.

Kozin almost breathed a sigh of relief but managed to stop himself in time. He'd been right. Gaunter was too keen on him, for whatever reason, to let him go. And from the condescending smirk that suddenly replaced the fearful scowl, he figured he was up for whatever the witcher would stutter up as his second request. Kozin's eyes quickly darted over Gaunter's face, conjuring up everything his grandmaster had taught him about reading a person.

Gaunter was a trickster, talented at twisting people's words and turning it against them. That made him clever, formidable. But he was also arrogant—that smirk, the tightening of the chin, and the slight hood in his eyes told that to Kozin. He knew there was only one way to beat him.

"On the last day of this month," Kozin said, each word carefully measured before leaving his lips, "we play a game."

He saw Gaunter's eyebrows go up. The smirk was replaced with a lighthearted smile of genuine curiosity. "Of what sort?" he asked.

"Your choosing," Kozin answered, again watching a fresh wave of delight wash over Gaunter's face. "But it has to be fair. We both must have a chance at winning."

"Otherwise there'd be no fun of it," Gaunter agreed. He was looking positively gleeful. His arrogance was swelling. That was good… Kozin hoped.

"Exactly. If you win, you get your claim over me. But if _I_ win, my payment is null and I walk away with my brother."

Gaunter looked as though Kozin had told him a good joke. "Very well. Let's seal this contract in ink." As he spoke, a piece of parchment appeared in the air, growing from a singed edge as if it were being burned in reverse. "In return for the privilege of challenging me and the restoration of your dear Andryk, you are to take his place. But in regards to the challenge, if you win…" That last word was spoken with a bit of a scoff. "… Then I shall leave the two of you alone. If you lose, you are _both_ mine." Minute text raced across the parchment, too tiny for Kozin to read. "That is final. Do we gave a deal?" Under the parchment, a hand was extended.

It was ironic, Kozin found, that even with the hand still waiting, the bottom of the contract still blank, how trapped he felt. The last sentence had just finished appearing on the paper's surface when he clasped hands with Gaunter.

"Deal."

Suddenly he heard a sound like sizzling flesh. Pain carved itself into his palm. His arm shook with agony. It felt as though multiple red-hot tips were scraping against his skin. Gaunter's grip on his hand was firm and unbroken. He stared unblinking at Kozin as the witcher ground his teeth to suppress his pain.

Finally, he let Kozin's hand go. Kozin pulled it back, yanking his gauntlet off and turning his palm up to inspect it. It was covered in charred etchings—designs of runes he couldn't recognize. Some of the flesh within the blackened lines still burned bright red. "What—?"

"A little memorandum of what we've just discussed," Gaunter said. The parchment rolled up and crumpled into nothing. He turned and strolled away.

To Oslan, Kozin realized as he looked up from his mutilated hand. Gaunter yanked the bone dagger up from his belt and caught it. "Almost forgot to return this to your friend," he remarked, and then stabbed the blade through a crevice in Oslan's armor. Before Kozin could react, Gaunter vanished and the world moved again.

Oslan's foot came down from its step, and then he suddenly doubled over with a shout. He gripped his shoulder where the knife was embedded in his flesh. Kozin rushed forward to help him up.

"Ko? How did you…?" Oslan grunted in pain as his fingers gripped the dagger's hilt. "What happened? I was just walking, and then—." He broke off abruptly as he yanked the dagger out. "This is mine! How did it…?" It seemed Oslan was too flustered to finish any of his sentences.

Kozin helped Oslan to a nearby fence post and pulled off his shoulder plating. He took a small rag and pressed it against Oslan's shoulder. "It's fine," the blond witcher insisted. "It'll be healed by morning. I just want to know how it happened. One second I was walking back from the stables, and the next this thing was guard-deep in my shoulder. And you." Kozin kept his eyes down as he continued to apply pressure to his brother's shoulder. "You just appeared out of nowhere."

Kozin took a deep breath. He shook his head, already in disbelief about what he was going to say. "I found our man," he said in a quiet mumble.

"The…?"

"Devil," Kozin finished immediately. His own words surprised him. But now that he thought about it… there seemed no other word better suited.

"What do you mean?" Oslan's voice became deeper, a blatant indicator of his concern.

"I…" Kozin's hand tightened on the rag. He felt the freshly seared tracks stab pain into his fleshy palm. "I don't know the whole story, but I think I can guess most of it. He came to Andryk, somehow knowing how vulnerable he was. Whatever had Andryk down all winter was what he wanted reversed. Then the man came back to Andryk to collect his payment… something a little more personal than money."

"Is he dead?"

"I don't think so."

"How are you sure?"

"He told me Andryk was still alive. I know his word is all I've got to go on, but it's the only thing I have." Kozin's brow tightened. "Don't worry. I'll get him back."

"How?"

Kozin held the rag with his other hand. Then, he flipped his exposed palm over and opened his fingers. The skin was etched with deep, charred lines.

"I made a deal."

* * *

 _Look at me, look at me_

 _Look at me now_

 _You're standing your ground_

 _But you're in my house_

 _I will be your enemy_

 _Nowhere to run and nothing to lose_

 _Damned if we don't and damned if we do_

"Your Enemy"—The Spiritual Machines


	36. Chapter 36 - Calm Before the Storm

It was the 23rd of March. A week had passed since those etchings had been burned into his hand, and not a day passed without those events playing through Kozin's mind.

They had returned to An Skellig to rejoin with Arda and Theila. It didn't take a sharp eye to see that the black-haired witcher was even more quiet and stony than usual. Where there should have been words of greeting and heartwarming reunion, there were none. Kozin couldn't help but feel the sorceress's gaze follow him as he passed wordlessly by the women, trailed by the voice of Arda happily welcoming Oslan.

For the rest of the evening, he sat by the dock, watching the sun sink into the distance. The fishermen pulling their catches onto shore largely ignored the brooding witcher. His silent vigil masked the tempest of conflicting emotions swirling around in his head. One moment, he was placated as he came up with strategies to beat Gaunter. The next moment, his thoughts wailed despairingly that Kozin had doomed himself.

For a while, the docks were empty. Everything was still, except for the occasional cloud of smoke that puffed against the darkening air. Then Kozin heard sharp heels hitting the pier. He didn't turn, instead taking another deep pull from the pipe. Over the bitterness of perique, he caught the sharp sweetness of freesia.

The heels stopped just short of where he was. Kozin could practically hear the gears turning in Theila's head as she struggled with how to break the silence. Kozin wasn't blind to what she had come here for.

After blowing a stream of smoke out, he said, "I'm fine."

"I don't think you are."

Kozin felt a jab of irritation. Sometimes her protectiveness got a little too overbearing. "Stop reading my mind."

"I don't even need to." The rope that ran from post to post creaked from the sorceress's weight as she sat down. Kozin finally turned to her. Theila was sitting on the rope at an angle, her legs tilted as though she were riding sidesaddle on a horse. An arm rested delicately over a post. She was staring over the water. "Don't worry. I'll be out of your hair soon enough. I need to head back." She sighed, and continued, "Tell me you have some good news about Andryk that I can bring back to him."

Kozin looked down at the wet planks of the pier. "He'll be back soon." If the grandmaster had been here, he would've heard the lie in Kozin's voice. The end of March was drawing near, and things were looking more and more bleak.

His distress was not lost on the sorceress. "Do you want to talk?" Theila offered.

"No."

"About something else. Anything else. Just to get your mind off of things."

This time, he didn't turn down the offer. But Kozin didn't know if that was even possible. Never had he stopped thinking about what was to come. "Sure," he said.

"So what shall we discuss?"

"I don't know," Kozin grumbled before sticking the end of his pipe back into his mouth. "Just… tell me about you."

"Me?"

"I don't know much about you," Kozin realized. Ironic, considering all the years he'd known her. "Where do you go when you're not wintering at the island?"

"Various things," Theila said, reclining more heavily onto the post as she began. "I teach, I research, I consult. All things that probably seem very dull to you."

"You teach?"

"Yes, every fall at Vintrica, a school of sorcery up in the Dragon Mountains. It's my alma mater, you could say."

Of course Theila had gone to a school of sorcery—anyone connected to the Source who never learned how to handle it were doomed to madness. He'd never heard of Vintrica before, but then again how could he have? "What do you teach?"

"Elementalism. Specifically, weather-related magic."

"That does sound boring."

"I could conjure up a bolt of lightning from the heavens right now to strike you."

"Sky's clear."

"Won't stop me."

Kozin chuckled. Their little conversation was working—he was beginning to feel the heavy cloud of dread break apart. "So what's it like? Going through a school of sorcery?"

"Much more tame than being in a witcher school, I can tell you that," Theila said with a tinkling laugh. "And much more diverse. In your guild, you learn how to be a witcher, and that's it. Schools of sorcery are structured around different practices. Many girls simply choose to have a well-rounded education and get an adequate scope of all practices. They'll become your typical sorceresses and go on to serve as political advisors. Then there are some who continue to pursue certain practices in greater detail and become Magi."

"And what did you do?"

"Well, after my apprenticeship, I became a certified Magus of Alchemy. I went on to be an apothecary auditor—now I bet you didn't know that kind of thing existed."

"If it's not a breed of monster, then I don't know much about it," Kozin joked. "What did you do? Regulate apothecaries?"

"Well…" the sorceress replied slowly as she thought. "You could say that. I traveled to apothecaries and alchemist's shops all across Kovir and Redania to inspect their wares. Whether intentional or by mistake, wrong ingredients get stocked and sold under false names. A lot of ingredients—especially leafy plants and dusts—look exceedingly similar. You could see how the shopkeeper of a small apothecary in a no-name village, with limited alchemy knowhow, could mix them up. Other apothecaries in larger areas tend to sell wrong ingredients fraudulently to cut corners. Some ingredients are so indistinct that it takes magic to tell them apart, which is why a sorcerer or sorceress is usually required for the job.

"Most of the time, the work was drab—sorting through boxes and cubbies of dried herbs, mushrooms, animal blood, saps, monster parts, and everything else to make you lose your enthusiasm for lunch. The really exciting, though unfortunate, moments on the job were when you stumbled upon illegal wares. Now, as you can imagine, the owners aren't about to stick their illicitly gathered human or elf parts in the same storehouse as their usual ones. I've seen all kinds of hiding methods, from the cliché under-the-floorboard compartment to off-site caches to even the use of spells to try and disguise them. Of course, no matter how faint the trail, it's always easy to find if you know what to look for. Usually the biggest indicator was the look of fleeting panic on the shopkeeper's face when I stepped through the door."

Kozin quietly puffed on his pipe, having gone through a second chamber-full of perique. He told himself he needed to slow down or he'd find himself with an empty leaf pouch—a fate worse than death. Very few places sold perique, and the few places that did stock it did not price it lightly.

"How long ago was this?" Kozin asked.

Theila flashed him a grin. "Is this another attempt at finding my age?" she wondered with an air of laughter in her voice. "You'll have to forgive me, but I'm not about to give that away, my dear. But I will divulge that this was before I met your grandmaster."

"Before?"

"I know it might seem like it, and it indeed does feel that way, but I didn't know Undevar my entire life," Theila said.

"How did you meet him?"

Theila remained silent and turned her gaze out towards the water. Her olive eyes clouded, and it seemed to Kozin that she was dredging up memories that had been still for longer than he could imagine.

"I don't like talking about it, Kozin," she began carefully. "And I don't want you to hear about it. It would give you the wrong impression of your grandmaster. He was a very different man then. He wasn't true to himself, as he is now." She looked back to him and resumed her casual, reclined position.

"I can tell you about how I came to Skellige," she offered, maneuvering around the original question before Kozin had a chance to insist on it again. "At some point, I finally decided that I wasn't going to sift through the dusty backrooms of apothecaries for the rest of my extended life. I returned to Vintrica to become a Magus of Elementalism. One thing I'd noticed through my travels was the ruin brought on by drought. I wanted to study weather patterns and find a way to lessen drought in some areas without damaging their climates. Nature is very unrelenting, but it is very delicate at the same time."

"Like some sorceresses," Kozin cut in.

Again, she laughed. "Very much," Theila replied. "And then, as fate would have it, I was brought to Skellige. There is a place, dangerously west of the islands, that was important to my research—Sansira's Spire."

"I've heard of it," Kozin recalled. Back at the guild, he'd been told it was a tall spire of jagged rock surrounded by miles of open ocean. A never-ending thunderstorm crashed over the spire, churning the water into angry waves and threatening any nearing vessel with torrents of lightning.

"Do you know the story behind it?" Theila asked. Kozin gave a single shake of his head. "There's a little bit of variation between the songs the skalds sing and the folklore that's told around fires, but generally the story is this—a phoenix named Sansira defied the will of the sea gods and chose to lay her eggs on the tip of their sacred spire. Despite their warnings, she did it because it was the highest point in Skellige, the closest to the sun. To punish her defiance, the sea gods cursed the spire with an eternal storm so that the eggs would never be able to touch sunlight and hatch, and so that Sansira would never be able to return to them."

"Cheerful," Kozin replied sarcastically. "I can imagine parents telling this to their children as they're tucking them in. What sweet dreams they must have."

"It's just a story, Kozin—another instrument to teach Skellige's youth to respect the gods. It wasn't their power that caused the storm. It's magic—a set of runes engrained into the side of the rock by an ancient druid for whatever reason."

"Well thanks for ruining the story for me."

"Don't tell me you believe in that stuff—the wrath of the sea gods and all that."

"Couldn't give less of a shit," he grunted.

Something creaked. Both looked over to see a straggling fisherman tying back the sail to a small boat. His back was to them. A protective scarf was tied to his head, though the sun had long since set.

Immediately, Theila lost interest and looked back over the water. "Anyway," she continued, "that's when I met your grandmaster. Niyette—the woman who had been my mistress during my apprenticeship—and I were situated in Kaer Trolde during our stay. We needed a witcher to guide us to Sansira's Spire. As you can imagine, we were met with no short amount of rejection. The seas to the west of Skellige are dangerous enough without needing to sail headfirst into a cursed, eternal storm. Not only that, but… well, Bear was very _different_ back then. They held to very patriarchal values, mixed with just a dash of charming misogyny. Our very existence as educated women seemed to offend them. Then, finally, one witcher agreed to help us." The sorceress's lips tweaked into a small smile. "At that time, I never would have thought that anything would come of it. My feelings for that boy were far from romantic."

"Boy?" Kozin echoed. It seemed wrong to call Undevar something like that. To Kozin, it was hard to attribute youth to the grandmaster.

"To me, that was what he seemed like. Undevar was in his sixties when we met. I was in my nineties."

Now that was something Kozin didn't expect to hear. He took the pipe from his mouth. "So…" The rest of his words failed to show.

Theila shook her head. "I think I've said far too much," she laughed. The sorceress stood and smoothed the dress around her thighs. "It's getting late. I should go. Knowing him, he might even try and leave the island." Her hands stilled by her side. "Funny how that island's become like a prison for him. He had his heart set on becoming grandmaster for as long as I can recall, but I wonder if he misses the days when we used to…" She stopped herself and looked down with an embarrassed smile. Despite the pristineness preserved by her glamor, Kozin spied the weariness of time on her face.

With a sharp clearing of her throat, Theila washed the wistfulness from her face and looked up. "I should go," she repeated. "Good night, Kozin. Bring Andryk home, okay? I trust you'll be able to do it."

Kozin listened to the gentle thumps of her heels fade from the dock. The chamber of his pipe and the ashen dust within were cold. Slowly, he turned the pipe over and watched the trails of dust drift away in the weak night breeze. Perhaps it was time to turn in and wrestle with the prospect of sleep.

But the night wasn't over. Someone cleared their throat loudly, obnoxiously.

Kozin glanced over without turning his head. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the lone fisherman. Something about him looked… familiar. It made Kozin turn his head.

"I thought she'd never leave!" the lone fisherman exclaimed, whipping the scarf from his head and throwing it into the water over his shoulder. Kozin scowled and turned away as Gaunter moseyed over to him. "You ought to be careful of that one, Kozin. Don't you know sorceresses are conniving, scheming little she-devils? Underneath all that glamor is something truly terrifying. That vixen is no different. I wonder how many skeletons she's got in that oversized closet of hers?" A course chuckle rumbled from his throat as he crossed his arms.

"I know of one, and let me tell you—that skeleton's going to come rattling back out. Oh, the madness people resort to for love." Kozin noticed the Bear medallion still hung around Gaunter's neck. Hate pulsed through him.

"Why are you here?"

"Just here to check up on you, dear friend. Only a week until the big day, and I want to make sure you're still up for the challenge. We said this would be fair, after all." He smiled at Kozin. "And I intend to keep my word."

"Leave me alone."

"Careful what you ask for," Gaunter warned, slipping a hand out to wag his finger. "You might get exactly what you want. Be wary of the skeleton, my friend."

"What is that supposed to—?" Kozin looked around. He was alone on the dock.

* * *

 _What kind of man would forsake his name?_

 _What kind of man puts his faith in a game?_

 _What kind of man only wants to bleed?_

 _Everybody knows that the man is me_

"The Man is Me"—The Spiritual Machines


	37. Chapter 37 - The Game

_**3/23-New cover is yo boy Kozin. Yup yup.**_

* * *

The sky was supposed to be cloudy, grim—maybe with a little rain and the groan of thunder in the horizon. The world was supposed to reflect the somber tones of the day. Just like in the tales of heroes charging forth into their doom or prisoners being led to the man with the large ax, the heavens were supposed to weep for the tragedy to come.

Today was going to be sunny. Warm, even. This year the Skelligan chill had, for some reason, receded early to make way for the sun. Aside from the lazy wisps that hung in the pale pink, the sky was spotless. The sun was only just beginning to rise, but today was going to be sunny.

Kozin made sure it wasn't going to be easy for anyone, even another witcher, to follow him. A witcher knew how to make himself invisible to even the land he walked on. He traveled by foot, leaving his horse behind in the safety of the seaside village. He must've crossed a couple of miles inland by now. When could he stop? When was if safe enough to?

Aside from a tiny village, Kozin had seen no other sign of civilization. That'd been over an hour ago. He'd gone through what looked to be a tiny campsite—an abandoned bandit camp, if he had to guess. But the site was picked clean, and he doubt anyone was around for miles. Not that he was worried. He wasn't trying to escape from anything. Not that he could.

Not when evil was following him.

Gaunter had only let Kozin see him when he wanted to be seen, but the witcher always felt his presence. Perhaps it had been paranoia, or perhaps instinct. There had always been something just barely there—a thing out of the corner of the eye or against the back of the neck. Kozin felt as though he was being stalked by a predator that always lurked just beyond the mirror's edge.

That feeling never left him all morning. It didn't matter that his heightened senses told him that nothing was there but the awakening world. He was being watched.

Kozin wasn't scared. Fear had churned itself into exhaustion within him in the past few days. Remaining was an aftertaste of dread—he was worried. Kozin was ready to charge headfirst into whatever Gaunter had in store for him, but a part of him knew he wasn't going to get what he'd asked for. And what about Andryk? If Kozin failed, his brother would never return. Neither would he.

 _Why? Why the fuck, Addie?_ He wondered that for the millionth time. He could curse and blame Andryk all he wanted, but just like all the other times, nothing would ever come of it.

A small hill emerged in the distance. Kozin squinted as he peered at it. The rising sun gleamed from behind the hill like a brilliant crown. For some reason, that hill seemed like refuge. Perhaps it was the high terrain that appealed to him—the protection from stalkers. The witcher spurred himself into a light jog towards the hill. His gait didn't slow when he met the slope. His shadow stretched downwards behind him as he climbed to the top.

Small boulders dotted the top of the hill. Kozin looked at the landscape around him as he sat down on one of the rocks. Trees dotted the ground in patches. Beyond, in the far horizon, rose mountains. Even distance did little to stifle their towering forms. Snow streaked their jagged slopes, covering the dark rock underneath. Kozin breathed deeply, letting the cool morning air relax him. Perhaps he ought to be grateful that the day had chosen to be so tranquil.

Once again, Kozin lowered his eyes to scan around the base of the hill. He was still alone.

The witcher lifted a leg and crossed his ankle over his knee. He leaned his forearms on his bent leg, the black pipe already in one hand. He filled it with dark-colored tobacco and lit it with Igni. He breathed in his first pull and immediately began to feel a bit more relaxed.

What, Kozin wondered, had driven Andryk into such desperation that he had made a deal with Gaunter? Even the red-haired witcher should have had enough sense to know better. Kozin recalled Andryk's demeanor during the past winter. No doubt that had something to do with it.

There was evidence—Andryk's strange attitude towards the late Pirate Queen, and the battle he had allegedly participated in. Kozin figured he had a theory, but there was no way of knowing for sure except to hear it from Andryk's own mouth.

Kozin let out a heavy breath. Smoke puffed out in front of his face and drifted away in the lazy breeze. He tapped the point of his pipe against the corner of his mouth—a habit he did when he wasn't quite ready for another drag. The blue of the sky was starting to grow more intense. He wondered why nothing was happening. Gaunter obviously knew where he was and that he was waiting. Before, he had needed the wait to enjoy the quiet and still his heart. Now, it was growing unbearable.

Kozin took another sharp breath. It made his shoulders rise, and he expelled it slowly through the slit between his lips. Then he pushed the pipe between his teeth and took a deep drag of the heavily fragranced smoke.

He began to wonder whether he should have told Theila what he had done. Then again, what would that achieve? She'd fuss, scold him for his foolishness. And he didn't need that. No, this was something he needed to deal with on his own. He couldn't afford the risk of leaning on someone else.

Another puff of smoke crowded the air in front of his face, obscuring his vision. As it was carried away, Kozin saw that he wasn't alone. The first thing he spotted was the Bear medallion still around Gaunter's neck.

"What's with the grim look, dear witcher?" By contrast, Gaunter's tone and look was positively glowing. "You remind me of a man awaiting his death."

"You're late," was the growled response.

"Then you must be raring to go."

Kozin slowly dumped his pipe over the cool dirt, though his eyes were trained on Gaunter. The morning air suddenly felt a little too cold. Gaunter sprang to his feet and, reflexively, so did Kozin. He realized his hand was hovering in front of his midsection, fingers flexed and ready to grab the hilt over his shoulder. The witcher quickly lowered his hand, but the detail was not lost on Gaunter.

"Jumpy, aren't we?"

Kozin scowled at Gaunter's mocking eyes. "Just get on with it." Gaunter placed his hands behind his back and casually began strolling around Kozin. The witcher's eyes never left him. Then, suddenly the trickster passed by a door that appeared out of thin air. Gaunter stopped by the door and swiveled around to face Kozin. He raised a hand to beckon towards the door.

"Come, Kozin. I have some place special in mind where we can partake in our little game. I've chosen it especially for you." The doorknob turned on its own accord. The hinges creaked as the door opened a crack, too narrow for Kozin to see past.

All there was beyond the narrow sliver was darkness. The back of Kozin's neck prickled. But he couldn't hesitate. He wouldn't show any sign of weakness, or give Gaunter any fuel to feed his smug fire. He pushed himself forward, crossing the distance between himself and the door in a few speedy, sure steps. Kozin ignored Gaunter as he passed him and shoved the door open to step through.

The moment his boot touched the soft ground beyond, a brilliant flash blinded him. His ears were filled with the crackling roar of thunder. Kozin flinched and shielded his eyes. He felt the sharp pecks of heavy rain on his skin. Squinting, Kozin lowered his arm.

A storm raged above him. The howling wind whipped rain into his face. Nearby, a large rectangular banner billowed and slapped weightily against the pole it was affixed to.

There was writing on the banner. Kozin slopped over the mud to inspect, but stopped when he saw something else.

Before him were five tall tombstones lined side-by-side. Kozin realized he was in a small graveyard. The wet stones held no words, but at the top of each was a mirror. The relief of a banner was carved above the mirror, and below were four silver, plaque-like rectangles. Each tombstone was identical.

A deep, burning sensation bubbled in the pit of Kozin's stomach. What kind of sick game had Gaunter prepared for him?

"Comfortable, Kozin? Ready to play?"

Kozin whirled around to find the source of Gaunter's voice. No one accompanied him in the graveyard.

"Looking for me? Indeed, in order to win you'll need to find where I hide. But I'm afraid it's not going to be that simple, my friend. Look down at these lovely headstones before you." Kozin obeyed. "Here stand the graves of fived deceased—all well known to you, as you will soon find out. Each of these sad souls has brought to the grave a name and four dark secrets.

"Failure. Each of these primitive beings have dreadfully disappointed in their time. Fear. They all have something that creeps along the back of their minds during the darkest of nights. Memory. Something they wish they could tear from their minds in order to find peace. And finally, death. I'll admit, Kozin, that this one is by far my favorite. Let's have a peek into the future, shall we? Some of the things you will learn about have not yet come to pass. Why restrict ourselves to the then and now, after all?"

The banner next to him reared up in the wind. Kozin's eyes snapped to it as it flapped back down. "The banner you see there tells you 15 clues you'll need to discover the grisly truth to each of the dearly departed," Gaunter continued. "Find out who lies where and, finally, find under whose grave I hide under: _the one who dies a fool's death._ Once you think you know, start digging."

Something whistled past, and Kozin jumped back as a shovel stuck deep into the soggy ground.

"A word of caution, dear witcher. Should you drive the spade of that shovel into the wrong grave, there will be hell to pay. It is, after all, disrespectful to disturb the dead." Thunder crashed overhead. "Oh, and don't keep me waiting. You have twenty minutes."

Frantically, Kozin gave the tombstones one last, desperate sweep before turning his attention the banner. He grabbed one of its corners and pulled it down to read the words sewed onto its surface. 15 clues were laid out before him in a list.

 _1) Your grandmaster rots beneath the first grave._

 _2) The one who fears being degraded lies to the left of the one who remembers being left behind by a daughter._

 _3) The grave of the one who turned his back on his brothers is to the left of the one who let the boy die._

 _4) The one who fears degradation is buried next to the one who will lose their head to the ax._

 _5) Theila will die when hatred for Vintrica flares up_

 _6) The one who will fall with the monster resides by the one who fears losing the guild._

 _7) Oslan turned his back on his brothers._

 _8) The one who fears being struck by the abusive hand remembers the face of man looking into the eyes of his murderer._

 _9) The resident of the center grave shall remember watching the woman in his arms fade away._

 _10) Undevar lies next to the one who wasn't able to save her._

 _11) Andryk remembers the billowing blouse on that warm night._

 _12) The one who fears the inevitable death not theirs will die in foreign lands._

 _13) The one who bent to the allure of power fears losing the guild_

 _14) The one who let the boy die remembers burying his brother and lies next to the one who inadvertently killed Bear._

 _15) Kozin fears being the last of his brothers._

Undevar, Theila, Oslan, Andryk, and himself. Those were whom Gaunter allotted these graves for. Kozin gritted his teeth as his eyes raced over the words, dark truths laid so ungraciously bare. Lightning flashed. Kozin pushed the soaked banner away as he turned to face the headstones once more. He quickly reminded himself that he precious little time to solve the puzzle.

Kozin looked back at the banner, once again reading the first clue. _Your grandmaster rots beneath the first grave_. Looking at the leftmost headstone, Kozin said aloud, "The first one is Undevar's." Immediately, the grandmaster's name appeared on the headstone, etched in the banner at the top. Kozin exhaled heavily through his nose as he looked down at the plot in front of the stone. Undevar wasn't down there. He _wasn't_. It was just Gaunter trying to get to him. Kozin gave a rough shake of his head to rattle the disturbing thought out of his mind. His eyes returned to the banner. That clue had been the simplest. The others were hell of a lot more cryptic.

Scanning down the list, Kozin stopped at the ninth clue. _The resident of the center grave shall remember watching the woman in his arms fade away._ "That's the memory for the one in the center." One of the rectangular plaques on the center headstone became filled with the words of the clue.

There was one last obvious clue. _Undevar lies next to the one who wasn't able to save her_. A failure. It appeared on the second headstone.

What next? Kozin had been able to pin three clues down, but the rest were proving to be a challenge. All of them said someone was lying next to another, but whom? Where? Kozin read the list again and again, trying to find any kind of solution tucked away in the words. Growing panic was clouding his mind.

"Stuck, Kozin?" Gaunter's voice mocked. "I assure you, this puzzle can be solved. I have seen to that. Your stupidity, however, was something I did not account for."

Wildly, Kozin reached out and gripped the shovel with cold, shaking fingers.

"Careful, witcher. Are you sure that's wise? You're nowhere close to narrowing down your choices, and I don't think you can afford to guess. But what am I saying?" His laugh grated Kozin's ears. "I care not! Guess away!"

Kozin released the shovel handle, squeezing his frozen hands into fists against his abdomen. How much time had passed already? Kozin looked back to the banner.

This was a test of logic, he told himself. He just needed to think, that was all. Kozin started at the top of the list and reread the clues at a slower pace. His eyes fell onto the third— _the grave of the one who turned his back on his brothers is to the left of the one who let the boy die._ That clue named the failures of two different people. "The one who turned his back" couldn't be in the first grave, couldn't be Undevar. The grave to his left already had a failure named. That left either the third or fourth headstone.

Another clue eliminated the uncertainty. _The one who let the boy die remembers burying his brother and lies next to the one who inadvertently killed Bear_. The failure and the memory for "the one who let the boy die" were named, as well as the failure of the one next to him. The center grave's memory was already known, so "the one who killed Bear" was in the last grave. That meant "the one who turned his back" was in the third grave. "The one who let the boy die" was to the left, in the fourth grave. The fourth grave's memory was also now known. The clues found their places on the plaques. Kozin breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of them.

"Don't celebrate just yet," Gaunter told him. "You're not done."

Another look over the list told Kozin that things were slowly starting to match up. The one in the center grave turned his back on his brothers. The fifth clue read _Oslan turned his back on his brothers_. The blond witcher's name appeared in the arched stone banner. The failures of four out of the five graves were known. Kozin knew who to match the final one with.

 _The one who bent to the allure of power fears losing the guild._ Undevar's failure and fear appeared on his headstone.

Kozin paused to reread the plaques under his grandmaster's name. Bent to the allure of power? What did that mean? The black-haired witcher quickly dismissed the question. He had more work to do.

The next step was in the sixth clue. _The one who will fall with the monster resides by the one who fears losing the guild._ That death was associated with the second grave. It was the first death he matched.

It wasn't Undevar or Oslan's predicted death. Kozin stared, his mind brimmed with worry at the unwelcomed truth. Was it his? Andryk's? It was the kind of end expected for a witcher, but the prospect still didn't sit well with Kozin. And then there was Theila. Her death was already identified in a clue. _When hatred for Vintrica flares up_. Kozin felt as though he ought to keep that detail in mind. Maybe there was something he could do about it.

That was the worst part of this game—learning about the deaths. Kozin wasn't sure he wanted to be saddled with those secrets. Had Gaunter simply made them up? Surely he didn't know.

"Are you sure you have the time to deliberate?"

Gaunter's voice snapped Kozin out of his thoughts. The witcher scowled. "These secrets—you're lying about them, aren't you? Just to get to me?"

"Only time will tell," Gaunter replied. "Although, with the progress you're making, perhaps I should change the deaths of two certain individuals to 'lost a game with Gaunter O'Dimm,' hmm?"

"How much time do I have left?" Kozin demanded. There was no reply. With an enraged shout, Kozin swung his arm and struck the shovel handle. It jerked and fell into the mud. Breathing heavily, Kozin turned back to the banner.

The second clue read _The one who fears being degraded lies to the left of the one who remembers being left behind by a daughter_. A fear and a memory. The memories of the third and fourth grave were already known, leaving the fear to the second grave and the memory to the first.

Again, Kozin hesitated. A daughter? Undevar had a daughter? How? "What does that mean?" Kozin pleaded to no one in particular.

"I doubt you'll have the chance to find out," Gaunter taunted.

"Shut up!" Kozin snapped. His shoulders sagged with an invisible weight. It wasn't the challenge of the puzzle that was getting to him. It was what the banner and the graves were telling him. Every bit of progress he made was like a stab to the gut. He didn't want to know.

This was what Gaunter had intended. He was trying to discourage Kozin from solving the puzzle. Too paragon, he had called the witcher. Too weak to accept the ugly truth.

Well, he was wrong. He was wrong, and that was how Kozin would beat the bastard.

12 of the plaques and banners were completed. Undevar's grave was mostly filled—only his death remained a mystery. Oslan's grave had two secrets missing. The identities of the other three were still unknown.

 _The one who fears being struck by the abusive hand remembers the face of a man looking into the eyes of his murderer_. It was the fear and memory of the same person. Only the memories of the second and fifth grave were unknown. However, the fear of the second grave gleamed from its plaque. Two plaques on the fifth grave filled themselves.

Whoever was in the second grave recalled a man they murdered. Kozin thought back to what a certain deceased witcher had told him. He had a sinking feeling he knew whose name belonged on that grave, though he refused to accept the truth until it was confirmed.

There was only one unmatched memory left, and one headstone it could belong to. _Andryk remembers the billowing blouse on that warm night._ The final plaque on Andryk's grave became embossed with words. His headstone was complete. Movement caught Kozin's attention. Something rippled across the mirror. It no longer reflected the dark, muddy graveyard. Instead, a blurry scene played behind it as though it had become a window.

Kozin could hear a voice, muddled and unclear. His vision wavered and his mind suddenly became hazy. He raised a hand and pressed his fingertips gingerly against his temple. What was happening to him? The voice was starting to become clearer. By contrast, his head was getting more and more bleary. Kozin squinted his eyes. His hand dropped and he stumbled—

—And was storming forward, his feet booming angrily against the floor. He was in a house, marching down a short hallway. Fury bubbled through him. The voice that Kozin had heard was his own.

"Where are you?" he shouted. "Where are you hiding?"

The voice was his own. They were coming from his mouth. It was his feet carrying him through the house, and his arm throwing the nearest door open. But who was he looking for? Gaunter, wasn't it? That fucker was hiding somewhere—hiding somewhere in this goddamn house! Once Kozin found him, he'd…

There! Someone was crouching behind a crate in the corner. Kozin stormed over, ready. But it wasn't O'Dimm. It was a small boy.

Who? The boy's messy hair was a brilliant red. He couldn't have been more than five or six—too young for the Trials. Too young for Kozin to recognize at first.

The boy looked up at him. Fear, desperation, fury, they were all there on his small face. Kozin wanted to hesitate, but a foreign force suddenly took over his body. He felt himself reach forward and snatch the boy tightly by the arm, hauling him up to his feet.

"Finally got you, you little rat!" Kozin heard himself snarl. "Didn't you hear me? I said to get out! Out!"

"Da, stop!" the boy pleaded, stumbling behind as Kozin dragged him through the house. "Da, it's raining outside!" The child resisted as much as he could, struggling to break away from the grip that no doubt hurt him. Try as he might, he couldn't outmatch Kozin's strength.

"So what?" They reached the front door. Kozin shoved it open. Rain pattered heavily down over the grass. "You stay out, you worthless leech, and don't you dare come back before you're allowed!" He shoved the boy out into the downpour and slammed the door shut before Andryk had a chance to turn around.

Suddenly, the hazy feeling and wavering vision struck him again. The sound of the rain just outside the door became loud, and Kozin felt it pounding over him. He blinked and shook his head, his wet hair sticking to his cheeks. He was back in the graveyard. The boy and the house were gone.

"What was that?" Kozin demanded. He was answered by a loud crash and the tinkle of glass as the mirror on Andryk's grave shattered. Splintered fragments fell into the mud. Only the words etched into the stone remained.

 _Andryk._

 _The one who wasn't able to save her._

 _The one who fears degradation._

 _The one who remembers the billowing blouse on that warm night._

 _The one who will fall with the monster._

"Very good, Kozin," Gaunter remarked, like a schoolteacher praising a child. "You'd be glad to hear that you're exceeding my expectations. But they weren't very high to begin with."

"What does the last one mean?" Kozin asked, his eyes still focused on the plaques. "What monster? When?"

"Time is ticking," Gaunter reminded him.

* * *

 _For the life of me_

 _I cannot remember_

 _What made us think we were wise_

 _And we'd never compromise_

 _For the life of me_

 _I cannot believe we'd ever die_

 _For these sins_

"The Freshmen"—The Verve Pipe


	38. Chapter 38 - To the Victor Go the Spoils

Rain fell in unrelenting torrents, driving small craters into the soft mud. The downpour soaked the flapping banner. Wind forced the waterlogged canvas to flare up, flinging droplets of water from its dripping hem. Lightning split the sky and the ensuing thunder shook the air.

Cold streams ran down Kozin's face as he stared down at the stones before him. He blinked, pushing the water from his eyes. They streaked down his face like tears.

He knew where to place the next clue. It was the one at the very bottom of the list— _Kozin fears being left behind_. There was only one grave left with an empty fear and an empty name. He watched as his name carved itself into the banner of the second-to-last grave next to Oslan's.

He hated, _hated_ , seeing his fear being laid out in bare words like that. It was something he would never admit, but it was true. He was afraid of being the last. The last of the Bears, the last of his brothers, the last of everyone he knew. But there was another item under his name: _the one who remembers burying his brother_.

Gaunter was telling Kozin that he'd see one of his brothers die—Oslan or Andryk. He'd have to light the funeral pyre, send them off.

Be left behind.

 _No_ , the witcher insisted to himself. Gaunter was lying. His clues had been tailored just to scare Kozin, to slide under his skin like a flaying knife. Surely they couldn't be true. Surely.

"I must say, you're making good progress," Gaunter remarked, his voice snaking above the hiss of the rain. "But are you sure you want to continue? It's only going to get worse from here. I'm only looking out for you, dear friend. You're looking rather pale." Something bumped roughly against the back of Kozin's thighs. He looked back. A crooked tree stump protruded from the mud. "Why don't you take a seat? Give yourself some time to clear your head?"

Kozin grated his teeth together and stubbornly turned away from the stump. The mud sucked at his boots as he marched over to the banner. Bunching a corner in his fist, he forced it down so he could read the list again. Before he could take in a single word, his eyes were filled with a blinding white light that forced his head down. Cracking thunder split the air and stabbed his ears. A cry of pain escaped the witcher's lips. It was as though that thunder had been curated just to punish Kozin's defiance.

 _You're not making me waste any more time, Mirror_. He turned his head, peeking at the tombstones over his arm. It was then he realized he knew the identities of every grave except the last, and there was only one name left to pair it with.

The sorceress's name was carved by an invisible hand into the headstone at the very end of the row of graves. _Theila_ —the woman he had grown to see more as his mother than the woman who had birthed him. The one who brought gave Undevar the kind of joy worth envying.

There was another clue that included her name, and it belonged on the remaining blank plaque. The sorceress's grave was completed.

 _Theila._

 _The one who inadvertently killed Bear._

 _The one who fears being struck by the abusive hand._

 _The one who remembers the face of the man looking into the eyes of his murderer._

 _The one who will die when hatred for Vintrica flares up._

Something wobbled in the mirror that was underneath the sorceress's name. Kozin thought he caught the sound of something—a muffled boom. An explosion coming from within the glass. The mirror gave a small shudder. Rainwater streaked down its surface, making the blurry images within it impossible to discern.

This time, Kozin stepped willfully towards the tombstone, determined to see what the completed scene had to show him. He had seen Andryk's fear. Perhaps this time he'd see something else for Theila, and his resolve to protect the sorceress pushed him forward.

He wasn't prepared for the emptiness that came with his next step. When his boot should have met the muddy ground, it didn't. Instead, it continued going down. Kozin's heart skipped a beat and his stomach plunged—the same exact feeling one had when miscounting the final step on a staircase.

And then it stopped. His foot hit solid ground… too solid. It wasn't mud. It was stone. The floor was laid with it—immaculate stone tiles. Pale bricks lined the walls, and columns rose on either side of the hall to meet at the ceiling as archways. The spacious hallway Kozin found himself in had once been beautiful.

But now it was in the process of being torn down. In the distance, he heard another explosion that shot tremors through the floor beneath him. The hallway shivered like a hurt creature, and chunks of ivory stone fell from the ceiling and smashed to chalky chunks a few feet away from where Kozin stood. His sharp ears caught screams of fear—frightened women and young girls. Angry shouts. Bellows of "Witch!" held tones of the desire for murder. Portals roared.

Kozin turned his head to the pile of rubble next to him. A leg and a bit of dress stuck out from underneath it. A runnel of blood drew a morbid, crimson line down the calf.

Another bit of rock fell and clattered onto the floor beside him. Kozin was startled back to his senses and hurried forward, reaching back instinctively for his steel broadsword. But it wasn't there. Kozin cursed, remember that he was in Gaunter's vision and the trickster had taken his weapons away. But that wasn't important—finding Theila was.

His boots sounded strange as they thundered down the stone hall. It was as though his ears were filled with cotton. They didn't sound quite right.

As he ran, Kozin saw more and more of the invasion's carnage. Dead sorceresses lay on the ground wherever he went. Wounds covered their bodies and soaked their robes. Some had been cut to ribbons by dimeritium shrapnel. Kozin scanned each of their wide-eyed, bloodstained faces, fearing to find her familiar olive eyes among the waxen skin.

Cold relief flooded him when he failed to find them. But if she wasn't here among the dead… "Theila!" Kozin shouted. The stone carried his voice.

 _"Iteal'ch an dagr aep ichear!"_ a voice boomed, as if to answer him. It was hers, deep and guttural as it drew in the power of Chaos. _"Dhra'enáil beathra!"_ It was also strained, as though its caster was weak and struggling to enunciate her spell.

What followed was the rattling gasp of someone drawing their last breath. Then, the heavy thud of something heavy hitting the ground. Uneven footsteps scraped across the stone. A woman's haggard breathing filled Kozin's ears. Scrabbling—she stumbled. Fleshy palms hit the wall as she caught herself. The breathing grew slower.

Kozin found the wooden door the sounds came from. With a thrust of his arm, he threw it open as soon as he reached it. Dead men were scattered across the floor, their weapons lying uselessly beside them. And across the room, he saw her.

She had already sunk to the ground, her back to the wall. Her arm was wrapped over her stomach, concealing some wound but unable to hide the red creeping out from underneath. Theila was unlike Kozin had ever seen before. Her hair was matted, and her face was streaked with blood and dirt. Her dress was gone, replaced by light hide plating—armor donned for battle.

Her metal heels grinded against the stone as she pulled her legs in. A whimper escaped her lips. Her arm tightened over her stomach. Kozin ran to her. "Theila! Theila, no!" He recognized a dying person when he saw one.

The sorceress didn't react to him. Her hooded gaze swept across what to her was an empty room. Her other hand reached to something on the back of her belt. It came back up with something clutched in the fingers. A Bear medallion.

Slowly, Theila raised the medallion, her hand trembling with effort. She closed her eyes and brought the medallion to her face, pressing it to her lips. Kozin had just reached her when the Bear medallion fell with her hand. Her head dropped to the side.

"Theila!" He collapsed beside her, smashing his knees onto the cold stone. Kozin took her face in his hands, lifting it up to stare into her lifeless eyes. "Don't go! Don't leave me behind!" There was no answer. The sorceress was dead. He knew that, but he refused to listen to reason.

Then, in the next blink, she was gone. His hands held empty air. Cold rain pounded over him. The banner flapped behind him. Slowly, Kozin tightened his numb hands into fists and slammed them down onto his thighs. He saw zigzags race across the mirror on Theila's grave. Then more appeared. The mirror was torn apart with a bang and dropped as fragments into the mud.

Kozin stared at the blank spot where the mirror used to be, still seeing her dead eyes gazing back at him. Then, he closed his eyes and willed himself back to the present. He raised a hand and scraped it down his wet face. As he rose, mud rolled down his boots.

There was no taunt from Gaunter this time. He wanted Kozin to become engulfed in the misery he'd just subject the witcher too. But Kozin wouldn't give that victory to him. "Now you've made me mad," the witcher hissed, his seething eyes falling onto the remaining graves. "Look at that, Mirror. Just a few spaces left to be filled. It's a straight shot from here, and then I'll have you."

"Hmm. Better be quick then."

Jarred, Kozin thought about how much time he'd spent going through that vision of Theila. He turned back to the banner. The wind had picked it up and flipped it over itself. Kozin reached up and pulled it back down. When he did, a claw swiped at him. Instead of the list of clues, Kozin found himself confronted by a wyvern emerging from the canvas. Its gaping jaws shot out at him. With a cry, Kozin released the banner and jumped back, his hand flying back to the hilt at his shoulder. But as his fingers closed around the silver sword, the banner flapped innocently back, revealing nothing but a set of clues on its surface.

Kozin exhaled heavily, his hand still gripping the hilt. It was a trick, he realized, by Gaunter to stall for more time. Kozin had him worried, and he was pulling out at all the stops to stall him. The witcher was conquering his puzzle, so now he'd resorted to using time to get his victory.

"One fear left," Kozin said aloud, so that Gaunter could hear him. "One fear left to be matched to its grave—the center one. _The one who fears the inevitable death not theirs will die in foreign lands_. That's Os's grave done." As he spoke, the words appeared on Oslan's plaques, completing the headstones. "Come on then! Show me what you've got!" Kozin's voice was growing almost deranged. "Let me see the horrible things in store for my brother! That brings me all the closer to finding you, you sick fuck!"

Suddenly, the rain halted. Each drop was suspended in midair. Kozin found himself trapped in a void of stillness and silence. Then, a soft, shaky breath cut through the noiselessness. It came from behind him. As Kozin turned to investigate the source of the noise, his surroundings changed. When he had completely turned, he was standing on the far side of a bedroom. Weak light streamed through the window, resting on the two individuals at the bed. Oslan was sitting on the edge, cradling his wife.

His head was bowed to meet Arda's eyes. Words slipped from his mouth, hushed and quick like prayer. He was telling her over and over again that he loved her.

Arda looked almost the same as Kozin remembered, though grey streaks ran through her hair and age crinkled the corners of her eyes. But she looked too young, far too young, to be fading already.

"That's up to you." Gaunter's voice made Kozin jump. Something whirred softly. A spool of thread came down from the ceiling, leaving a trail of string like a spider. The spool hit the floor, but the thread remained taught. "You could let them be—spare her until her natural time comes. Or…"

Something clattered at Kozin's feet. It was a pair of scissors.

"You could end it now. It's really up to you, dear Kozin. Can you really afford to wait that long? Remember—time's a-ticking."

Kozin stared down at the scissors. Gaunter was going to hold him in this vision until he decided. And if he ran out of time…

He crouched down, reaching out for the scissors. His fingers closed in around them and lifted them up. As Kozin straightened up, he looked back at the pair. Oslan lifted a hand and delicately brushed a lock of hair away from Arda's forehead.

"You're strong, leannan. The fever won't take you. It'll pass."

Kozin closed his eyes, telling himself that he was in a vision. This wasn't real. It was a trick. A trick. _A trick._

"I'm sorry, Os." He couldn't stop the words from escaping his mouth. He opened his eyes, but refused to look at his brother as he grabbed the string in his shaking fist. He couldn't breath as he brought the scissors up to the string to cut it in one fluid motion. One end dangled limply in the air while the other fell in spirals on the ground.

"… Arda?"

Kozin dropped the scissors.

"Arda… please… leannan?" He heard Oslan's voice break. "No… please… A-Ar… no… Why? Why did you take her?" His voice rose, becoming angry, confrontational. Kozin couldn't look at him. "We still had time! Why did you take her?"

The window suddenly flew open, throwing rain and wind into the room. The walls of the room peeled away, carried off by the storm. Kozin shielded his face as a gust hit him and cold rain returned to his skin. The force knocked him off balance and he stumbled. His foot caught on the fallen shovel. Mud sloshed as the witcher landed on his side, catching himself on an arm.

He lifted himself up, dragging his clean hand across his face to wipe away the mud. Glass screeched as the mirror on the headstone burst.

 _Oslan._

 _The one who turned his back on his brothers._

 _The one who fears the inevitable death not his._

 _The one who remembers watching the woman in his arms fade away._

 _The one who will die in foreign lands._

He knew. They all knew Oslan would eventually have to face that day. But Kozin hadn't been ready to confront it like that—with Gaunter pushing him up front and center. Making him cut the thread. _He_ had cut the thread. Did that mean Kozin would somehow be responsible for…?

The witcher brought himself back up to his feet. Mud filled the cracks in his armor and dripped from his fingers. Kozin sloshed to Undevar's grave. He still stood a respectable distance away from the tombstone even though he was certain, _certain_ that there was nothing underneath that plot of land in front of him. There was one empty plaque left—the death. Kozin already knew which clue belonged there. Only one from the list remained.

 _The one who fears degradation is buried next to the one who will lose their head to the ax._

It was the worst death he had to confront because it was so undeserved. Undevar—the man that had filled the role of a father so thoroughly. The most brave, skilled, selfless man he knew was doomed to an end that some depraved, condemned criminal ought to have.

"Perhaps it is fitting after all," Gaunter mused, once again showing his ability to help himself to Kozin's thoughts uninvited. "How well do you know your grandmaster?" The reflection in Undevar's mirror warped.

Fear suddenly seized Kozin's heart. He stepped back. "No…"

"Now, now, Kozin," Gaunter chided lightly. "Don't you back away. It's deplorable for a man to remain willfully ignorant, is it not? Come forth and learn exactly what kind of criminal Undevar is to deserve his fate. Or…"

Something bright illuminated behind Kozin, throwing his shadow over Undevar's grave. The witcher looked back and saw the seams of an arching doorway drawing itself into the air. Then, as though a curtain had been pulled aside, light spilled through from the archway.

"Take the easy way out, Kozin. You needn't subject yourself to any more torment. And you needn't let the memories of what you have seen agonize you any longer. Step through, and be free."

The light beckoned, and Kozin longed for relief from the dark visions. He had watched those closest to him suffer. He knew about the misery that awaited them all. It was a burden chained to him that he didn't want.

 _But if I step through_ , Kozin thought, _I'll lose them all. Right here, right now._

The witcher turned away. "I don't suppose you've got Andryk's freedom behind that doorway?" he growled, walking away from the light. "Show me, damn it. Show me what kind of man Undevar is."

The ground beneath him suddenly swirled as though it were spinning on a plate. The air and sky changed little except now, the rain was heavier and more frequent bolts of lightning split the black clouds. Thunder cracked deafeningly and the wind pummeled his body like invisible fists.

He was standing in open air, floating. No, he was standing on the top of something. A spire. For miles around, there was nothing but the storm and the restless ocean. Out of the corner of his eye, Kozin saw movement and realized he wasn't alone.

A witcher stood next to him. The wind jostled the Bear medallion at his neck. The top half of his black hair was tied into a ponytail, and the rest of it fluttered in long, soaked locks around his neck. Though he was much, much younger, Kozin recognized his grandmaster. Undevar's eyes were focused on the drop in front of them. Kozin looked down too.

The distance between them and the water below was dizzying to look at. At what seemed like miles down, the water crashed in angry, foaming waves against the base of the spire.

A vein of lightning shot through the clouds, and almost immediately the roar of thunder followed. When the boom died down, Kozin heard talking behind him. He looked and saw a bizarre scene. What appeared to be two other people, unaffected by the rain, stood in what Kozin could only describe was a pocket of some other reality. The two stood in a blurry bubble that, within, was some sort of room. A study, perhaps. Or an office.

"… Getting in the way," a grayed, fierce-looking old witcher was saying to the other.

"What would you have me do?" the second person asked. Kozin realized it was the same man that stood next to him now—the younger Undevar.

"I want them silenced," the old witcher hissed. "When next you bring them to the spire, ensure they do not return."

Undevar looked stunned. "You would have me—?"

"Do this," the old witcher interrupted, his voice quiet and prickly. "And my seat as grandmaster is guaranteed to you." The old witcher's words were met with silence as Undevar pondered over the proposal. "You can tell the others it was an accident," the grayed witcher continued. "Sansira's Spire is a perilous place. A tragic accident would not be so out of place."

"And I will be promised the title of grandmaster?"

"That is correct."

As Undevar looked down, the bubble began fading. Kozin thought he caught a certain gleam in the witcher's eyes before they vanished.

A sharp crackle of thunder pulled Kozin back into his current surroundings. He looked around. They were standing on a _spire_. "Is this… Sansira's Spire?" he asked aloud. He heard the man next to him give a heavy sigh.

"I hope you will learn to forgive me."

Suddenly, Kozin's breathing was cut off as a hand brutally clutched his neck. Kozin's hands flew up to fight against Undevar's crushing grip. He looked into his grandmaster's face, catching only a glimpse of the cold determination on his face. Then, a forceful shove sent him flying over the edge of the spire. Kozin flipped, looking down at the crashing waves, and flipped again. He saw Undevar peering over the edge, watching him fall. His stomach rose to his throat as he felt the sickening feeling of free fall engulf him. He didn't know when he would hit the water. All he knew was that when he did, he—.

Kozin's body stopped falling, stopped turning over. He was on his feet, but he was heavily disoriented. The witcher tipped forward, falling onto his knees in the sludge. He gasped, drawing breath for the first time in what felt like ages.

 _Undevar._

 _The one who bent to the allure of power._

 _The one who fears losing the guild._

 _The one who remembers being left behind by a daughter._

 _The one who will lose their head to the ax._

"Ruthless, isn't he?" Gaunter asked, not giving Kozin time to recover. "But what's sad is that what he did wasn't necessary at all. If he wanted the grandmaster's seat so badly, all he needed to do was ask me. We could have come up with a nice little deal."

"Lies…"

"What was that?"

"Lies… all of it!" Kozin suddenly roared, raising his head. "Everything you've shown me—nothing but lies! Just fabrications you've invented to keep me from completing your puzzle! Well guess what, Gaunter? It's done!" He reached out and snatched the shovel from the mud. Rising, he pulled the shovel back and smashed its spade into Undevar's mirror before it had a chance to break on its own. "I know who dies a fool's death! I know whose grave you're hiding in! I'm coming for you, you fucker!"

Kozin stopped in front of his own grave and drove the shovel down into the soggy earth. He brought it up and flung the first clump of mud away.

"Ten."

Another shovelful. And then another.

"Nine."

A large divot formed in the ground. And still the shovel was forced through, cutting away more and more of the earth.

"Eight… Seven…"

"I know you're in there!" Kozin shouted at the hole. He jumped down and continued digging.

"Six… Five… Four…"

The spade struck something hard. It scraped against wood as Kozin cleaned away the mud on top of the coffin.

"Three…"

Frantic, desperate fingers scrabbled at the edge of the coffin lid. Finally, Kozin managed to catch the edge. He dug his fingers in and lifted.

"Two… O—."

The lid flew up, propelled by some impossibly strong force. It slammed into Kozin and knocked him back. The coffin lid landed on top of him. He shoved it aside and grabbed the edge of the coffin to pull himself back on his feet.

Kozin found Gaunter lying in the casket's padded interior, looking peaceful in slumber. Or death. His hands rested over his stomach, clutching Andryk's Bear medallion. Kozin reached down to take it back. Before he could touch it, Gaunter's eyes flew open. The hand holding the medallion snatched Kozin's wrist. The other wrapped painfully around the witcher's neck. The fingers digging into his skin felt like concrete. Gaunter effortlessly pulled the struggling witcher down until they were face to face.

Gaunter's face had changed, warped into something that made Kozin's breath catch in his throat. The skin clung to his skull like an emaciated corpse. It was chalky white enough to see the dark purple veins running through his face, as though Gaunter was suffering the effects of a witcher potion. His voice slithered from between his pale lips, oily and chilling.

"Do you feel like a victor, witcher? Do you feel like you've won?" Gaunter's black, beady eyes bore holes into Kozin's. A very real pain bubbled in his sockets. He tried closing his eyes, but some invisible power held his stare to those burning, black voids. "These things I have shown you are truths, and they _will_ come to pass. Spend the rest of your pathetic years waiting for them to happen. Wait for your fears to come true. Are you really the victor? Then enjoy your spoils."

The pain was growing unbearable—it felt as though his eyes were about to burst. Kozin barely felt the warmth trickling down his face. Tears? His vision was growing hazy. Nausea brewed in his stomach from the pain.

Gaunter suddenly threw him away. When Kozin's back hit the ground, he didn't feel mud. The ground underneath him was firm. The rain had stopped, or… at least he didn't feel it anymore. He couldn't see the sky. He couldn't see anything.

Something groaned next to him, and then stirred. Kozin heard a weak gasp, and then a faint, "Ko?" Kozin propped himself up with one arm and waved his other hand in front of his face. He couldn't see.

"Ko, are ye—Oh, no. Ko, what happened?"

"Addie?" Kozin said. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"They're… they're bleedin', mate." Kozin gingerly touched his cheek. It was wet. "And they're bone white. What—?"

"H-he burned my eyes out," Kozin said, his voice shaky. His heart quickened with panic. "He—that fucker blinded me! I—How can I be a witcher like this? Addie!"

"Oi, mate, it's goin' te be okay." He felt Andryk's arms pull him up to a sitting position. "Listen, we'll find a mage or sorceress o-o'somethin'…"

"Theila," Kozin said.

"She here?"

"By Urialla's Harbor. With Os."

"Right. Let's get ye up then."

It took a while for them to reach Theila. Andryk wasn't faring too well himself, having been trapped in Gaunter's captivity for the past few days. Kozin tried to get his deal with the trickster out of him, but Andryk pushed the subject aside, saying, "Not now, Ko."

It was late evening when they finally returned, judging by the cooled air. There was a commotion upon their return. Andryk had come back, and something awful had been inflicted on Kozin.

The red-haired witcher brushed all their questions away, insisting that something had to be done to Kozin first. Theila had him brought into the second bedroom where she examined him.

"Someone's put a curse on his eyes," she declared, wiping the dark blood that continued to trickle slowly from the corners of Kozin's eyes. "I can reverse it, but it'll take time. And it won't be pleasant. Is there any anesthesia we can give him before I begin?"

Arda left the room to fetch medicine from the cupboards. Andryk and Oslan stood in the corner, watching the sorceress tend to their brother. Oslan turned to Andryk, but before he could say anything, the red-haired witcher demanded, "Is she still there?"

"What?"

"The nightwraith," Andryk said, distress in his amber eyes. "Is she still there?"

"Night… wraith?" Oslan repeated slowly as he thought. "Well… I heard there was one over the water… I was planning to take care of it once we found—Hey! Where are you going?"

* * *

The sails slacked, bringing the boat to a slow halt. Wood creaked as the small vessel cut through a patch of moonlight. The boat's lone occupant stepped up to the side, looking out towards the water. His eyes were focused on the figure in the distance—a figure that floated weightlessly over the ocean's dark, glassy surface. Locks of hair drifted around the figure's head, obscuring the face from view. Even then, he could tell she was looking up at the moon.

For a moment, he stood there, silently watching her, unsure of what to do. Guilt, heartache, and pain clung to his heart and weighed it down like anchors. His witcher swords, sheathed and unoiled, remained on his back even though his medallion jostled in the nightwraith's presence.

Just then, a small burst of wind picked up and tapped a rope against the mast. The bump was barely audible, but the monster caught it. Suddenly her head swiveled in an impossible rotation to point her sockets towards the boat. A shrill, unearthly shriek cut through the air as the nightwraith shot towards the boat.

She stopped right at the boat's edge, her hair blown out to reveal her skull-like face to the witcher. The torn fabric of her blouse flared from her ribs. Choked gurgles came from the ragged throat where her heavy tongue protruded.

The wraith grabbed the motionless witcher, her spindly, taloned fingers digging into his shoulders. A horrible, gargled growl emitted from her as she brought her shriveled face closer to his. Her tongue climbed towards his jaw, and then stopped. The nightwraith released him and withdrew completely.

"Andryk?" her voice, only in his mind, sounded exactly as he'd remembered her.

Trembling hands rose to hold the nightwraith's face gently. "Look at ye," the witcher whispered, his voice shaking though not from fear. "Look at what I've done te ye. I jus… I just wanted ye back. I didn't mean fer this te happen."

"Andryk." She sounded awful, on the verge of tears. "I'm cold. So cold." She held her withered hands up as though she were trying to cup the moonlight. "No warmth. Just cold."

His hands went down and hugged the nightwraith's waist, feeling her bony spine through the shredded cloth. Gently, he tugged her into the boat. "Come here, lass," he told her. He wrapped one arm over her back and used the other hand to push the wraith's head down onto his shoulder. "I told ye once, didn't I? Just latch onte me, aye? Take whatever ye need te feel whole again. Ye don't have te be cold no more."

He felt the nightwraith's arms wrap around him, and suddenly his body was seized by an icy grip. His muscles tensed, but he kept a firm hold around the nightwraith. His teeth began clattering, and the short breaths that escaped between them came out in white puffs.

Andryk's eyes drifted up to the white orb in the sky. It wavered. He felt light-headed. The cold that enveloped his body didn't feel so bad. In fact, he didn't feel much of anything… Suddenly, he found that he was no longer standing. Instead, he was slumped against the mast. Odd. He didn't remember collapsing.

The moon was out, but there was a shadow covering him. Andryk looked up to see the nightwraith hovering over him. She still had the visage of a corpse—wilted and grotesque.

He didn't understand what had happened. He thought he would've been able to… What had failed?

The loose rags that draped from the nightwraith's hip like a dress buckled and folded as she lowered herself down to him. Andryk looked into her dead face—the eyeless sockets, the jagged teeth, and the gangling tongue that twitched by her chest.

"I won't," the nightwraith told him. "I won't take you."

"But ye can't stay like this." Andryk raised a hand to her broken face. A bony hand pushed it back down.

"I felt you," she said. "When you held me, I felt you. I feel you now." Andryk looked down at the hand that was still intertwined with his. But her fingers were no longer dry and clawed. They were normal—slender and soft. He lifted his eyes and saw her bright blue ones. "I feel… happy." The blue disappeared as she closed her eyes and leaned her head onto his shoulder. Andryk saw her outline begin to slowly fade.

"Stay," he pleaded, hugging her waning form desperately. "Stay with me a little longer." She reappeared again, and raised her head to his to kiss him gently. When they parted, she placed a hand over his cheek. Her touch was warm.

"I'll wait for you," she whispered to him. "My witcher… I love you."

She was gone before the words had drifted from his mind. The night was quiet and the boat was still. He stared up at the moon, taking from his pocket the circlet that he held until the sky grew pink with the sunrise.

* * *

 _I'm holding out_

' _Til we're out of time_

 _Would you pierce the veil_

 _Would you cross the line_

 _I can feel you here, souls redefined_

 _I can't let go of our design_

"Come Back to Me"—Les Friction

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Yes, I know it's been over a month. I'm hoping I can get updates out more frequently, but I can't guarantee anything. Thanks for sticking around.**_


	39. Chapter 39 - Shapes and Blurs

There wasn't a creature alive in this world or the next that could've matched Aegis's joy at the return of her master. She must have come running as soon as she heard the portal open, because she was already waiting for them before they had even stepped through.

First to step out was Oslan, supporting a blind Kozin through. Theila followed, carrying a satchel of the herbs she had been treating Kozin with while she tended to his complex curse.

When the last individual stepped through, Aegis immediately perked up. Her muzzle shot up and she opened her mouth in an 'o' to yowl. Dirt was kicked up as she scrabbled to the red-haired witcher, who crouched down to meet her. Aegis melted down into a ball of gleeful energy. She danced about, unable to decide between licking Andryk's face and whizzing around in circles. It seemed like the dog was attempting to do both at the same time.

Theila watched the witcher and his dog reunite for a moment, and then turned back to Oslan. "Take him to the infirmary," she instructed him, "and make sure he doesn't direct his eyes at anything bright." The blond witcher nodded, and led Kozin away. Just as they disappeared around the corner, Undevar appeared. The grandmaster took one last glance back at the two before heading over to Theila.

He'd have questions, she knew. A lot questions. But right now, she didn't have time to answer them. She had two witchers—one depleted and one blinded—to help.

"His eyes," Undevar said. "Who did that to him?"

"I don't know," Theila answered. "I'll find out, but not now."

"Will there be any… lingering effects?"

"Well, if one is to have faith in my abilities, then no," Theila said. Undevar didn't make any objections. The old witcher knew his sorceress too well. "His irises haven't returned, but he's told me he can make out vague shapes. Should take a week for him to get his sight back, and then another two to fully recover. And speaking of which…" She looked back at Andryk. He was still wrestling Aegis away as the pup tried giving him a face full of licks. "Andryk, you need to lie down. Rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I'm fine—."

"Don't give me that. You don't even need to sleep if you don't want to. Just go to bed and lie down. Your body has undergone a lot of stress, and it'll be aiming to collapse if you don't let it rest." Her tone was sharp. Andryk remained silent. After a moment, the red-haired witcher rose to his feet, gave a sharp whistle to keep Aegis close to his heels, and walked past them still without uttering a single word.

Undevar watched the retreating witcher with raised eyebrows. Then they came crashing back down as the grandmaster came to a realization, and he looked back at the sorceress with knowing eyes. The medallion around his neck was jostling against his collar.

Theila stared back with an unwavering gaze. "He'd argue, you know that. I don't have time for that. Kozin's badly hurt and I need to make sure Andryk is okay." The woman sighed heavily. "Oslan's with Kozin now, so he should be fine. I really need to see Andryk, make sure he's resting." She made to step past Undevar, but the large witcher quickly caught her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms.

"Thank you for looking after my boys, Theila."

Even in her heels, Theila had to stretch up to meet the grandmaster's lips with hers. "They're mine too," she told him. Then, she gently pulled herself from him and hurried into the keep.

She knew the spell had worn off by the time Andryk had reached his room. But by that time, he was already in bed, and Theila had been right. He _was_ tired. As the door opened and the sorceress stepped through, Andryk's eyes flickered lazily opened. He gave her one glanced and rolled on his side away from her.

Aegis lifted her head from the stone as Theila walked past. She patted the dog's head, and then sat at the edge of the bed.

"Andryk."

"Can't sleep," he said, unmoving. "Tired, but can't sleep. What kind o'bullshite is that?"

"I can help," Theila offered gently. "If you'll let me."

There was silence at first, and then Andryk rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. "Why not? No use lyin' around and stirrin' all these damned thoughts in me head."

Theila gently draped a hand over his forehead, and then swept strands of hair from his face. "Just close your eyes," she told him. "And the next thing you know, you'll be asleep." Andryk obeyed. Theila took her hand from his face and gently began to chant softly. The spell was meant to be said melodically, quietly, like a lullaby. The soothing words were repeated until Theila saw the rise and fall of Andryk's chest grow slow and even. The sorceress stopped her chanting and watched the young witcher.

He was still so young, almost like a little boy in her eyes. Undevar always boasted that his witchers were men, but Theila never shared that view. It tugged at her heart to know these boys were being spat out into the world where all kinds of things hurt could get to them. It wasn't just the monsters' claws that worried her.

That was the reasoning she used to justify her next actions. With Andryk asleep, the sorceress was able to use telemancy to peer into his mind. She had to know why he had disappeared and how Kozin had managed to get him back.

She saw the face a man. She heard what Andryk had asked of him, and how the man had claimed him. Quickly, Theila ended the session and rose to her feet. Aegis crawled onto the foot of the bed and curled up as the sorceress soundlessly exited the room.

* * *

"A game?" Kozin heard her repeat. What followed was the scrawling of a pen tip on paper.

"Aye. I challenged him and won."

"I… Kozin, this being is an unstoppable force. You simply challenged him to a game?"

"I beat him, didn't I?"

"For now."

Kozin blinked. He still couldn't make out the stonework of the ceiling—just a flat expanse of light tan. "What do you mean?"

"I've heard of this… merchant of yours, now that you've given me a bit more detail on him. It is alleged that he is a being of ultimate power. And is incredibly wicked."

"Well I got this evil god-like thing to leave me and Addie the hell alone."

"He is a peculiar creature from what I've heard," Theila said. Her dress swished and a fresh wave of freesia washed through the air as she crossed one leg over the other. "Rumored to have crossed over into this world when monsters and magic did during the Conjunction of the Spheres. Of course, maybe he's powerful enough to cross over without the aid of the Conjunction. Who knows? I didn't even think he actually existed."

"And where is he now? Think he'll still come after me?"

"I think you've weakened him. It might take him a while to reemerge, but I'm sure he will eventually. Which is why it's important that I document your game. This is crucial information, and it may prevent him from hurting more people. What were the specifics of this game?"

"He wanted something if he won. Never explicitly said what it was, but I'd bet my left foot it was my soul."

"I think you've done enough betting," Theila replied as she continued to write things down. "What was this game, exactly? What did he and you do?"

Kozin hesitated. He didn't want to talk about what Gaunter had showed him. A part of him was still trying to convince himself that none of it was true. Another part was afraid to admit that maybe it was. "It was a test of logic," he began slowly. "A… a series of riddles. Had to solve them all to find where he was. That's how I won. It wasn't easy. He really put me through hell."

All while he spoke, the sound of Theila's pen racing across the page complimented his words. Kozin waited for it to stop. And when it did, Kozin expected the sorceress to give him an earful about how brash and thoughtless he had been. Challenge an all-powerful being to a fun little game of puzzles and riddles? What had he been thinking?

But Theila said none of that when she finished writing. Her journal gave a soft thump as she closed it. "How are your eyes?"

"You don't have anything to say?"

"About what?"

"This is when I expect you to start telling me off. I'd say this is worse than going into the Coille."

"Both decisions were incredibly stupid. I won't deny that," Theila replied. "But you brought Andryk home, and I'm just relieved that you did. Besides, what's the point? You're exactly like your grandmaster, and I've spent enough time with that bumbling mass of a man to know that anything I say leaks right out the other ear. So let me reiterate—how are your eyes?"

"Better than they were a few days ago," Kozin said heavily. He felt Theila put a hand gently on his face, delicately pulling up an eyelid to inspect his pale irises.

"You'll be fine," she assured him, saying it in a way that made Kozin believe her. "The healing is slow, but you'll be perfectly fine."

"And Addie?"

"Sleeping," the sorceress answered.

Kozin grunted. "Fucker's been doing that all winter."

"He's been through a lot, Kozin. Even before he met this Gaunter O'Dimm."

"Like what?"

There was a bit of hesitation before Theila answered, "I'm not at liberty to say. Ask him yourself when he's ready."

Kozin waited until the sorceress left, no doubt to relay her findings to Undevar, before rising out of bed and feeling his way out of the infirmary. He pushed away the housekeeper that tried to get him to return to bed and bumbled down the hall. His hand slid against the rough stone of the hallway. The keep had been reduced to nothing but indistinguishable blobs of color.

But Kozin had been raised in these halls, and it wasn't long before he found Andryk's room and carelessly threw it open. He heard Aegis yip and begin growling, but quieted down when she saw who it was. Kozin identified Andryk by the red of his hair. His brother was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands.

"Fuck me," Andryk grumbled as Kozin stepped in and clipped himself on a stray stool. "Feels like I've been hung upside down like a gutted hog. Shouldn't have let her use that bleedin' magic on me."

"Sleep well?" Kozin asked with a drawl as he felt for the stool and lowered himself onto it.

"Up yer arse, Ko." The red moved as Andryk raised his head back up. "How're yer eyes, mate? Damn, ye still look mighty radge. Can ye see anythin'?"

"A bit," Kozin said, moving his hands in front of his face and watching the dark mass move across his lame vision. "Can't make out shite, though. It's like being drunk with a clear head. At least the bleeding's stopped."

"Ye goin' te stay here fer the season?"

"Addie, I didn't come here to talk about me."

There was a pause. "Ko, I don't—."

"Quit fucking around and tell me straight. What happened, Addie? I've gone through hell and back for you, so you at least owe me that."

The red lowered back down. There was a sigh. "Fuck me," he repeated. "I let a lass get inte me head, Ko. She went in there and made a mess o'things. Haven't been able te get a simple night's rest since. Ah, _shite."_ A quick, blurry movement told Kozin that Andryk had snatched something up and hurled it across the room. Judging by the sound it made, it had been a pillow. Claws scrabbled as Aegis hurried over to snatch it up and bring it back. "The whole o'Skellige—every last isle—is goin' te have te sink under the sea 'fore I make that same bleedin' mistake again."

"What mistake?"

"Just don't ever fall in love, Ko."

* * *

The coming of spring meant that Theila was needed at Vintrica. And because the reversal of Gaunter's curse was a continual process that needed the sorceress present, that's where Kozin found himself headed off to as well.

He found himself staring warily at the swirling blurr in front of him. The roar of the portal never before had sounded so monster-like until now. Kozin felt Theila's arm wrap protectively around his back. "You'll be okay, Kozin," she assured him. "We'll walk together, okay?"

The air before entering portal had the fresh, salty smell of home. After he reemerged from the swirling, roaring opening, the overwhelming smells of perfume slapped him like the back of an angry lass's hand.

As the portal closed behind him, Kozin immediately began to feel light-headed. Theila must have felt the weight leaning against her grow slightly heavier. "Kozin?"

"Don't feel too good," he admitted in a mutter.

"Let's head over to my lab. The open air there will help clear your head. Out of the way please, ladies!"

Kozin saw the hazy shapes of sorceresses pass by as he and Theila made their way through foreign halls. The walls were white and decorated with pillars—just like the Vintrica Gaunter had showed him.

The multitude of excited, feminine voices managed to get Kozin out of his haunted thoughts. He turned his head towards a few, which elicited hushed gasps out of the closest women.

"Please, Kozin," Theila sighed as a door in front of them opened and she guided them through. "You're here to heal. Don't forget that."

"Well, nothing wrong with a little sight-seeing—Ow!" He felt a sharp zap come from where Theila's hand was on his back.

"Then I'll not even bother reversing your curse."

"No, I'll behave."

"That's what I thought."

They were in Theila's lab. It wasn't what Kozin had expected. The room was in the shape of a dome, and half of it was missing to give way to open air. Kozin could see the blue of the sky and dark gray, jagged masses underneath. "Mountains," Theila told Kozin as she lowered him onto a plush armchair.

"Quite the view."

"It is. You really need to take it in once your eyes return."

"I think the good view was back there in the hall. Ow!"

Before Theila could make any smart remarks, there was a soft knock at the door. The clicking of the sorceress's heels retreated from Kozin as she went to answer it.

"Theila," Kozin heard a woman say softly. "I presume you know that you've left a gaggle of incredibly distracted apprentices in your wake."

"I know," Theila replied. "Do I owe explanation?"

"Of why you've suddenly brought a man within these halls? I think you do, and I'll be the first to hear it. Step out of the way, if you don't mind." Kozin heard two pairs of feet approach him and shifted uncomfortably. What he wouldn't give to have just a few moments of peace, but he knew he wasn't going to get that here in a castle full of sorceresses.

"A witcher?" he heard the other woman remark.

"One of Undevar's," Theila answered. "He's been cursed. Bringing him here will speed up the recovery, now that I have full access to my lab. That and, well, I have work to do."

Kozin saw the shape of the woman step up to him. A hand was brought to his chin to tilt his face up. The air was filled with the sorceress's sweet scent. "Interesting," the woman murmured. Kozin swallowed, glad that his beard hid the movement of his throat. Damn, damn, _damn_. What he wouldn't give to have his sight returned to him right then and there. "An exceedingly malevolent curse, it seems. Who casted it?"

"A powerful being. I'm not exactly sure what, to be honest."

"That certainly is the witcher's way, isn't it? Diving headfirst into things they hardly understand."

Kozin reached up, took the sorceress's hand from his chin, and stood. "It really doesn't do to have you talk as though I'm a stranger to you," he said, flipping her hand over and ending his sentence with a kiss placed over it. "So why we introduce ourselves to one another so you don't have to, Lady…?"

"Brielle," the sorceress answered. "And who might you be, witcher?"

"Kozin, my lady. And might I add what a pleasure it is to meet you." As he spoke, he ran his thumb in circles over the sorceress's hand.

"Hmm." Brielle's voice came out in a purr. "Likewise. Welcome to Vintrica, witcher Kozin. I really must show you around the castle at some point."

"I look forward to it."

 _"Once_ he is fully recovered," Theila cut in, her voice like a knife's edge. She gave a strong clearing of her throat and continued, "Apologies, Brielle, but I need to administer his next treatment and could use some space."

"Of course. May you recover quickly, Kozin."

"Count on it."

Heels receded and the door to the lab opened and closed. Once they were alone, a sudden smack hit Kozin on the back of the head. "I've made a mistake bringing you here, haven't I?" Theila hissed.

"What makes you think that, Theila?"

"Just sit down." When he did, Theila handed him a cup of something. It smelt of something that shouldn't have been in a drink. "Don't hold onto it—drink it."

"What is this? Wyvern piss?"

"Heavens know that's what you deserve down your throat right now, you randy mess of a man," Theila said. From the sound of her voice, she was walking away. Kozin heard clinking, and then the whirr of some equipment coming to life. "It's a concoction that'll both numb you down and help the effects of my spell. That curse of yours is not easy to chip away at." Kozin squinted his eyes as another grayish blob appeared in the lab.

"Theila, you're back," the woman on the other side of the megascope said.

"Yes, and I'm sorry for the delay. Something… came up."

"Well I can tell you Cayessa hasn't been very upset at your absence."

Kozin heard Theila let out a heavy breath. "And I'm not surprised at that. Well, I'm here now, so send her over to my lab. How has her progress been this winter?"

"All I can say is that you have a lot of work to do, Theila." The megascope shut off abruptly. Theila turned and returned back to where Kozin sat.

The full cup was still in his hand. "Cayessa?"

"Drink," Theila ordered, pulling his hand with the cup up to his face.

"Who's she?" Kozin asked before placing the rim of the cup onto his lips. The drink was vile—tart and thick. Still, it tasted leagues better than any witcher potion.

Theila took the cup from him once he was finished. "My apprentice," she answered. Kozin felt her hands take the side of his head and lean it back against the armchair. "A very… misguided, outspoken young woman. Probably my most difficult apprentice yet. Actually, definitely my most difficult."

"And why's that?"

"She's very hard to teach," Theila answered. Kozin's temples began to grow warm, a usual occurrence during Theila's healing sessions. "She resists everything I tell her." His skin underneath her fingertips was growing hotter, but it wasn't unbearable. That drink seemed to help after all.

"Is that her now?" Kozin asked upon hearing a set of footsteps coming towards the laboratory door.

"Most likely. That was rather fast. I didn't expect her to get over here so soon."

"Well you know me, I'm like a magnet to them."

"Kozin." Theila's tone suddenly became stony. "Cayessa is young—she's only seen 17 springs. And there's not a single independent thought in her head, so you behave yourself, you hear?"

"I get it."

 _"Kozin."_

"Theila, I have standards. I'm not some mindless beast."

"Really? You could have convinced me." The playfulness had returned to the sorceress's voice. "Okay… I have to cut this session short. Cayessa and I need to sit down and debrief about how far she's gotten over winter without me." No sooner had she finished speaking, the door to the lab opened. A strong wave of overpowering vanilla filled Kozin's nose, and it took him all his self-control to keep him from gagging. _Someone_ was a little too fond of their perfume.

"Cayessa," Theila greeted warmly, though Kozin didn't miss the rigidness in her voice. "How are you? Have a good winter?"

"Yeah." The response was abrupt and indifferent.

"How is your pyromancy? Have you gotten a good grasp of it yet?"

"I don't know."

"I see…" It was getting harder and harder for Theila to conceal her displeasure. "Well, Cayessa, come and meet Kozin. He's a witcher from the School of Bear."

"A Skelliger?" Kozin was a little miffed at the poorly hidden disgust in her voice.

"Yes, he was born on the isles," Theila said. "Kozin, this is Cayessa Ilia-Ana." Kozin could only nod at the dune-colored shape in front of him. Apart from that, all he could tell was that her hair was a brilliant gold.

"Oh… What happened to his eyes? I thought witchers had cat eyes."

"You tell me. What happened to his eyes?" Theila quizzed.

Cayessa let out a small groan. "Well… I don't know."

"Don't just say 'I don't know,' Cayessa. Look. Feel the thrum of energy coming off of him. What does it feel like?"

"Hmm." Cayessa hummed a lot like Brielle had. Kozin looked away from the dune shape, thinking that the young apprentice wasn't just feeling the thrum of the curse. The moment stretched a little too long.

"Well?"

"I don't know… a curse or something?" Cayessa was starting to sound irritated.

"Yes, a curse. Can you tell me what class?"

"No." The young woman's brash response made Kozin snort. Theila, on the other hand, sighed. Even though he couldn't see her, Kozin knew the older sorceress was probably delicately massaging her temple.

"See, this is a problem, Cayessa. We need to work on this. Have a seat and—."

"Theila?" The megascope had come back on.

"Yes?" She turned to the projection. "Ah, headmistress. Good to see you."

"Brielle told me you've just returned. I don't know if she's informed you, but there is to be a meeting tonight…"

Kozin's mind drifted off of the boring conversation. He turned his head, testing his eyes. Theila's most recent session, as short as it was, helped a little. Blobs were turning into distinct forms, though he still had no hope of making out any sort of detail.

Suddenly, the sickeningly sweet scent of vanilla drifted over him. He thought he'd gotten used to the smell, but there was no getting used to _that_.

"So you're a witcher, huh?" Cayessa asked. Her voice had changed drastically. Earlier, it had been monotonous. Now it was nearly as sweet as her perfume, and just as brazen.

"Aye."

 _"Aye?_ Is that what Skelligers say instead of yes?" The girl giggled. Kozin tried his best to smile along. "You're so strange. And how did you get that curse over your eyes?" He didn't miss how she moved closer.

"You tell me."

Cayessa groaned. "Oh, don't be like that, witcher. It's bad enough with _her."_ She moved closer again. "I've never seen a beard like that before. How long did it take you to grow it?"

Kozin wondered how many men she had seen in her short life. He knew girls were taken to schools of sorcery when they were very young, almost like how witcher boys were. Too young to really remember any kind of life before the stone hallways and the training. "Not sure," he answered vaguely. "Never sheared it—just trimmed it every now and then." He didn't like how close she was. Cayessa had moved past his knees and was now practically standing over him.

"I don't think you should ever shear it off. It looks good on you." Her voice had become soft and uncomfortably intimate.

"Wasn't planning to."

"What's that around your neck? A bear head?"

"My medallion."

"Why is it moving around like that?"

"It reacts to magic." Kozin nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Cayessa's hand brush against his on the armrest.

"Oops," he heard the girl giggle. "Was that you?"

"That was me," he grumbled, well aware of what Cayessa was aiming for. He remembered what Theila said and gripped the armrest firmly. He was determined to remain stony and distant, but Cayessa wasn't letting up.

"You've got so many piercings."

"I do."

"And cuts too. Do you fight a lot of monsters?"

"That's my job."

"Sounds dangerous."

"It's not very cushy, no."

"How many other scars do you have?"

Kozin shrugged. "Too many to count, lass."

"On your body?" She sounded a more than just a little interested. Kozin cleared his throat and gave a small nod. "Can I see them?"

"Erm…"

"Cayessa." The dune shape turned around at Theila's sharp voice.

"What?"

"Why are you standing so close to him?"

"We're just talking."

"Just talking," Theila repeated. "Well, you'll get plenty of chance to talk when you tell me what you've been doing this past winter. Now come, Cayessa. I need to meet with the other mistresses."

"What about him?"

Theila paused on her way out the door. "Kozin, will you be fine here? Do you need someone to stay with you?"

"I can stay," Cayessa offered.

"Absolutely not," Theila snapped. "You're coming with me."

"But…"

"I'll be okay, Theila. Just don't take too long."

"An hour at most," Theila promised. She left, thankfully taking her young apprentice with her.

Finally alone, Kozin relaxed back into the armchair with an exasperated grunt. "Fuck me," he sighed.

* * *

 _There, there, baby_

 _It's just textbook stuff_

 _It's in the ABC's of growing up_

 _Now, now, darling_

 _Oh don't lose your head_

' _Cause none of us were angels_

 _But you know I love you, yeah_

"Speeding Cars"—Imogen Heap


	40. Chapter 40 - Scare Tactics

_**5/27 - The cover has been changed to Kozin's #1 fan.**_

 _ **Warning: this chapter contains copious amounts of estrogen.**_

* * *

That incident in Theila's lab was just the predecessor to many more attempts made by the sorceress's apprentice. It became abundantly clear that Cayessa was fixated on the witcher, though her advancements were far from welcomed. Kozin aimed to keep his word to Theila and refused to reciprocate her flirtation. Besides, the girl was unbearable. When she wasn't trying to seduce him in the most cringe worthy manner possible, she was cranky and moody when she failed to elicit the response she wanted from him. And she seemed to think it was cute to make fun of his accent and his Skelligan origins.

She cornered him at every chance she got—every fleeting opportunity Theila gave by leaving the two of them unsupervised. It had been four days since Kozin had arrived at Vintrica. His vision was nearly back. Blobs became objects and people again, though their outlines were still frustratingly blurry. He reckoned another day or two with Theila would restore his sight to normal, though he knew the sorceress would insist that he rest for another week at least.

Leaning back on the plush, wicker loveseat, Kozin wondered if he could sneak out of Vintrica without her noticing. After all, now that spring was starting up, Theila's work was demanding more and more of her attention. Even today, she was out for most of the day doing fieldwork—there was a hurricane coming towards Redania from the Gulf of Praxeda that her and a team were off to study.

That was why he was here now, lounging idly on one of the palace's verandas. Like Theila's lab, it offered a good view of Vintrica's surrounding landscape. The brown, jagged tips of the Dragon Mountains cut into the pale blue sky. Suddenly, a loud rumble came from over head. The veranda darkened, and then brightened again as a large shadow passed over it. Kozin tilted his head back to watch the underbelly of a red dragon fly by and head towards the distance.

Vintrica had a resident dragon—Pascal was the beast's name. Kozin had first encountered him when opening a door and coming face to face with a large, scaly face. Theila had to come running in order to prevent Kozin from slaying the school's pet. Pascal, on the other hand, had merely stared at the panicked witcher with deep, puzzled eyes.

"Put that sword away! The only dangerous thing around here is you!" Theila had scolded him. She then proceeded to scratch the hide on the dragon's chin, and it had rumbled what Kozin supposed was its equivalent of a purr.

The blurry outline of Pascal's wings beat the air as he flew from the palace. It looked as though he was off to find a few mountain goats for lunch.

As he watched the dragon, Kozin quickly became aware that he wasn't alone. He didn't even need to guess who it was, and the cloud of vanilla that drifted over the veranda only confirmed his suspicions. Kozin's eyes flitted to the girl without moving his head. She wandered over, painfully nonchalant even though her actions oozed with intent.

"Don't you have some lesson to attend?" he asked before she had a chance to make her usual comments about his appearance.

"Poo, why are you so rude to me, witcher?" She knew his name, but never called him by it. She came closer. Kozin could see the brown of her eyeshadow rimming her eyes. Even now, he could tell she was incredibly beautiful. He tried telling himself that it was all glamor, all an illusion. But that didn't stop him from staring too long before he finally remembered to divert his eyes away.

Unfortunately for him, Cayessa noticed. She moved next to him until the side of her knee pressed against the loveseat. "How's your vision?" she asked casually. Kozin didn't answer as he watched the flying speck in the distance. The sight of the mountains was suddenly interrupted by a hand waving in front of him. _"Hello_ , witcher, I was talking to you!"

Kozin swiped her hand away and glared up at her. "Why are you here?" he demanded. He wasn't prepared for what she did next.

Instead of answering, the girl suddenly perched on his lap. Her legs extended over the rest of the loveseat, and one hand wrapped around the back of his neck. Kozin froze. Her face was close to his, and he could now definitely tell that she was very, _very_ pretty. And she stared at him with a smoldering gaze that left little to the imagination on what was going through her mind.

"You just seemed lonely out here," she purred, draping her other arm over Kozin's chest. He was motionless as he watched her toss her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head, wondering how he could make her get off. If he asked her, she would pointedly refuse with an annoying giggle. He'd probably have to remove her by force—shove her off if he had to. But before Kozin could do anything, he felt a grinding on his thighs as Cayessa wiggled playfully on his lap.

He jolted as though Theila had given him another reprimanding zap. Except this time, the shock came from the horrific realization that he had _liked_ that wiggle. A little too much.

Quickly, Kozin wrapped an arm around Cayessa's waist and shoved her over onto the loveseat next to him. As soon as she was off of him, he stood and hurried over to the edge of the veranda to collect himself. As soon as the horror drained out of him, Kozin found himself mad. He couldn't believe this incessantly irritating girl had spurred that kind of reaction out of him.

An angry huff caused the witcher to look over his shoulder. Cayessa had regained her composure and was rising from the loveseat. "How could you do that to me?" she screeched, her arms extended straight at her sides. "What's wrong with you, you stupid brute?" Without giving him a chance to answer, Cayessa stormed off, leaving the disgruntled witcher behind to stew in his own anger.

* * *

Theila was starting to extend her lessons whenever she could, often turning them into daylong endeavors. Cayessa's mistress told her it was because they had a lot of catching up to do. The milestones she set were nearly impossible to reach. The woman just couldn't understand that not everyone was a prodigy like her.

It was late into the evening when Cayessa was finally released from the day's lesson. She walked through the palace halls to her room, ready for a chance to rest. Another grueling day done, just to make way for another. And to make matters worse, she hadn't seen the witcher in days.

Even when he wasn't around, the witcher's presence was always there. Amongst the gaggle of other young sorceresses, the conversation always made it back to him. Vintrica hadn't seen the presence of men, aside from old, wizened mages, in a while. And this witcher was a fresh face compared to the leathery, whiskered mugs of those sorcerers. He looked young enough to be in his 20's, though he could have been 50 for all Cayessa knew. And his full beard and tied back hair was enough to make any apprentice passing by take a second look.

She heard girls chat excitedly about what he looked like under those long tunics he wore. Even the loose fabric couldn't hide that muscle definition—the witcher was a bear of a man.

Cayessa was never a part of those conversations, even though she longed to delve into those topics with them. Aside from Theila and the other mistresses, she never really talked to anyone else at Vintrica. Sometimes, when she was sure no one was around, she spoke to Pascal while the dragon lounged lazily in his usual sunspot. The other girls weren't interested in becoming friends with her. That much was made obvious from the immediate silence that would fall over them whenever she came close. Turned backs weren't an unfamiliar sight either.

She knew why, too. A nice girl had once dared to let Cayessa know what the other apprentices thought of her—they gossiped amongst themselves that the golden-haired girl was too snobby and obnoxious to be likeable. And they snickered at how poor her magical abilities were, often using that to make Cayessa the butt of many jokes. Not all girls were that cruel, but they were too afraid to go against the flow. Useless, they called her. Cayessa had once overheard a pair of girls in the courtyard wondering what she was doing in a school of sorcery. Talentless as she was, she ought to forgo magic and learn the trade of whoring at a brothel, though they weren't sure she'd succeed at that either.

Cayessa had grown very good at brushing all their comments aside. Like water off a duck's back, she would tell herself. Perhaps, she wondered, that was why they saw her as arrogant—because she wouldn't let their comments get to her. On top of that, she knew there was probably jealousy factored into their behavior. Cayessa had been quite fair even before the glamor, and she knew that. They knew that. Yes, they were all just jealous.

And that was why she had more of a chance than any of them to woo the witcher. He hardly saw any of them except her. The man simply acted annoyed when she was around to preserve his foolish male pride, but she could tell he was succumbing to her.

With the hand mirror held up, Cayessa turned her head this way and that to study her reflection. She smoothed her hair down with her other hand, traced a finger over her eyebrows, and wondered whether she should apply a fresh layer of glamor. She blinked and thought for a moment. She wanted to go see the witcher so… better safe than sorry.

Cayessa released the mirror. It remained in the air as she took a glass pot from the tabletop and unscrewed the lid. The white cream inside smelled wonderfully of vanilla. Cayessa paused to savor a whiff before dipping a finger in and spreading the glamor in an arc underneath each eye. Then, she rubbed her skin until the white disappeared. She peered at her reflection and gave a satisfied smile. The mirror was whisked out of the air. Cayessa placed it onto the table next to her glamor and hurried out of her room.

As she walked down the hall, Cayessa glanced down at her peach colored dress. She had changed into it after practice, but wondered if she should have worn something different. Well… this one was decent. It had frilly sleeves that came down to her elbows, and a wide V collar that dipped enticingly down to her chest. Cayessa touched her bare collarbones, frustrated that she hadn't worn a necklace. There wasn't enough time to go back to her room and choose one. It was already dark, and she wanted to catch the witcher before he locked his door for the night.

First, Cayessa snuck by Theila's lab. She heard Theila behind the door, talking to someone through her megascope. The witcher wasn't there with her, which was good. Theila had caught wind of Cayessa's little fascination with the witcher and had gone through measures to keep them separated. If Cayessa could catch the witcher alone, then her mistress wouldn't be around to interfere.

Next, Cayessa made straight for the witcher's room. Her pace was quick and light as she headed for the staircase. No doubt Theila would check on her or the witcher once she was done with her megascope conference.

Sat on the foot of the steps was a group of three apprentices. As usual, their conversation drifted to a halt as Cayessa neared. She ignored their judgmental eyes as she came up to the stairs and stepped past them.

"She even dressed up for him this time," one of them commented loudly. It was the girl's derisory tone that made Cayessa stop and turn around. They looked back, the corners of their lips turned up in subtly wicked grins.

"Yes, and I look damn good, don't you think?" she replied, tilting her hips and placing her hands on them.

"You're pathetic," one of them scoffed. "Following the witcher around like a lovesick puppy. He clearly hates you, you know that? Why don't you do something useful, like actually learn magic?"

"I don't see the witcher talking to any of you hens," Cayessa snapped back, her fingers digging into her hips. "And my magic is _fine!"_

"Oh really? How's your pyromancy?" The girls snickered. "You couldn't melt an ice cube unless you used your own body. And that pretty much describes you entirely, doesn't it?"

Cayessa felt her face grow hot. _Like water off a duck's back_ , she reminded herself. "Keep sitting around and babbling, why don't you?" She turned away and raced up the steps as one girl called up after her, "Nothing else to say, huh? See you in a bit when the witcher kicks you out again!"

When she reached the top of the steps, Cayessa slowed her walk and breathed deeply. She pushed the girls' comments out of her mind and filled it with the thoughts of the witcher. Perhaps she could convince him to take her away once she had him completely wrapped around her finger.

The door to his room was ajar. It was almost inviting. Cayessa moved as softly as she could. She heard rumors that witchers had superhuman hearing, but maybe if she moved _very_ quietly, she could catch him unaware. As she crept closer, an idea came to her head and she reached up to tug the neckline of her dress lower. As Cayessa reached the door, she placed both her hands on the wall and peeked through the crack in the door. When she saw what was in the room, her breath caught in her throat.

Never in her life had Cayessa seen a man without his shirt… until now. His back was to her, hunched over a basin of water at the far end of the room. Her eyes traced the indent of his spine down his broad back. The witcher suddenly ducked down, and Cayessa heard a splash as he threw more water onto his face.

As quietly as she could, Cayessa reached over and widened the crack in the door. At first, she only did it to get a better view. Then, recklessness took over her and she slipped through into the room. The witcher didn't seem to notice, as he didn't move from the basin. He reached down to scoop another handful of water, and Cayessa watched his bare shoulders ripple. She parted her lips and drew in a strained breath through her mouth. Taking a tentative step forward, she wondered how she should make her presence known. Her heart was pounding. Glancing down, the girl tugged her neckline a little lower.

"You don't let up, do you?" came the growled question. Cayessa's eyes flew back up. The witcher had straightened up, but was still facing the basin. He flicked his wet hands into it and then turned. For a moment, Cayessa was speechless. His backside had been mesmerizing, but it was nothing compared to his front.

He was a wall of muscle, his body incredibly defined and decorated with pale scars. A mat of hair covered his wide chest and drew a line down his abdomen. The witcher lifted an arm and finally snagged Cayessa's stare from his body. He reached up and used the side of his hand and his thumb to pinch the droplets of water from his beard. His eyes, restored to their fierce amber, glared demandingly at her. Cayessa had completely forgotten what he had asked her.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he asked. "Come peeping at me when I'm in my own room? Stooped that low, have you?" His Skelligan accent had become particularly heavy.

"What are you even saying?" Cayessa blurted out, still struggling to string together a coherent set of thoughts. "Are you even talking in common, or is that some kind of weird island language?"

The witcher's eyebrows crashed over his eyes as his glare deepened. He crossed his arms as though he were prepared to reprimand her. "Listen to yourself, lass," he said. "Do you even hear what's coming out of your mouth?"

Quickly, Cayessa regained her composure. She threw her shoulders back and placed her hands on her hips, giving the witcher a sensual look. "Nope," she replied in a playful purr. "I was a little too distracted by what's in front of me."

The witcher's eyebrows rose. He uncrossed his arms and took a step towards her. Cayessa knew the witcher was about to shoo her out, but remained where she stood. Her head craned further and further back as she continued to hold the approaching witcher's gaze.

"I'm not going until you—."

He suddenly took her shoulder and whirled her to the left. After a light shove, Cayessa felt her back press against the wall. The flirtatious grin dropped from her face and she stared wide-eyed at the witcher standing over her. He braced one arm against the wall above her head. His golden eyes stared with raw intensity into hers. Cayessa's breaths grew shallow and quick. She tried to regain her footing in this little game, but could hardly move under the witcher's gaze. All words had left her. The only thing she could process in her head was the witcher's scent—the earthy smells of leather and tobacco and the sharp tang of vodka that surrounded her like a cage.

"So you like what you see, lass?" His low voice rumbled from his throat.

Cayessa's chest rose and fell rapidly as the witcher's face leaned closer to hers. She tried to nod, give a seductive answer, but she was completely paralyzed. Her eyes lowered and her chin tilted down an inch when she felt the witcher run his hand slowly up her arm. She couldn't stop the shiver that shot through her body.

"Is this what you came for?" Her eyes came back up to his as his hand came up around her shoulder and slid across her collarbone. Cayessa tried desperately to say something and take back the reins, but all that came out was a quiet whimper. The witcher's hand brushed up her neck and came to a stop around the back of her head.

He suddenly drew in, and the next thing Cayessa knew she was being crushed against the wall as the witcher brought his lips to hers in a kiss that completely erased any thought in her head. Shocked, Cayessa's legs nearly gave out. She would have sunk to the ground if she hadn't been pinned to the wall by the witcher's body.

Through his lips she tasted his tobacco and something unique—a strong, unidentifiable spice. Whatever it was, it was enticing. The witcher groaned into her lips as he tangled his hand through her hair. Cayessa's shoulders rose as her hands braced against the wall.

And suddenly it was over. The pressure was gone. The witcher peeled himself off of her. Cayessa's eyes fluttered opened and she gasped for air. Above her, the witcher's breathing was labored too. He stared down at her for a moment with those simmering eyes before turning his head to look at the door. Cayessa followed his gaze.

She was standing there, arms crossed. Her expression could have reduced a volcano to an iceberg. "Cayessa." Her voice was deathly soft. _"Leave."_

For the first time, the young apprentice followed Theila's orders immediately. She slipped under the witcher's arm and scurried out of the room as fast as she could. She heard the door to the witcher's room slam behind her and ran through the palace. The girl didn't stop until she had reached her own room. She reached out and caught herself on the bedpost, and then dropped onto her side on the bed.

A trembling hand came up and touched her lips where the witcher had locked her in a kiss. It was that kiss that replayed in her head over and over again.

What the witcher had done… the way he had moved into her… she had been _powerless_. All this time, she had toyed with the witcher. She thought she had him hooked by the mouth. But within a moment, a second, he had taken _everything_ from her. And she didn't dare admit how much she liked it. The acrid flavor of tobacco and that strange, sweet spice lingered on her tongue.

Cayessa drew up her knees and curled into a ball. Her heart was still stammering out a nervous beat, and she wondered if it was ever going to slow down.

* * *

Theila looked angry enough to murder. That was understandable, considering she had just walked in on him going against his word. But what the sorceress didn't understand was that he hadn't done it to seduce Cayessa… well, he _had_ , but not like that. He didn't know how to explain it, and he knew he certainly wouldn't be able to explain it to her.

"Explain. Now." Her curt words sliced the air.

"I was trying to scare her." He stared at the wall, at the empty space beneath him where the girl used to be.

 _"Scare her?"_ The sorceress's voice suddenly came out in a torrent of rage. "By plastering yourself onto her? And explain to me exactly what part of that was meant to scare her?"

"I just… I just figured…" Kozin's eyes narrowed as he tried to collect his thoughts. "I was trying to show her she didn't have any control over me."

"Oh really? She's made it painfully clear this past week that's she wanted you to come onto her. And remind me what you were just doing."

Kozin leaned his forehead against the wall. Damn it, he could still smell her. "That wasn't a good idea," he muttered. "Fuck me, that was a _bad_ idea." What had he done to himself? Kozin pushed himself off the wall and gave a rough shake of his head. No, he had simply been playing with the girl. So convincing was his act that he had begun to believe it himself. But now was the time to close the curtains and return to reality.

 _"I_ was the one who kissed her, Theila. I had to show her that…" Kozin trailed off with a shrug, unable to put to words what he had done. He walked over and sat on the edge of his bed. "It won't happen again, I promise you that. I just needed that brat to leave me alone."

"I know she's been egging you on all week," Theila said, leaning back against the door. With a sigh, she said, "I have half a mind to just portal you out of here now. But I still need another day or so on your eyes." She looked down. The corners of her lips twitched. It looked as though she were fighting down a smile. "You certainly had her on the ropes. She looked as though she were about to melt into the wall."

Kozin scoffed, struggling to stop the memory from crowding his head. "Yeah," he dismissed. "Has Brielle come back from the field yet?"

Theila huffed. Without answering, she turned and left the room.

* * *

The girl had changed, that much was for certain. A few days ago, Cayessa had been a brash, prideful apprentice who paid as much attention to her lessons as she did to the clouds drifting overhead. When Brielle returned to Vintrica, she found that Theila now had a completely different girl as an apprentice now. Cayessa had grown quiet. No longer did she talk back to her mistress or resist her orders. Brielle questioned Theila on what had happened during her absence.

"She got scared," Theila merely answered. Before she could turn away, Brielle caught her arm.

"Theila," she said, her tone earnest. "You must have realized how the other girls treat her. I've overheard my own apprentice saying some awful things."

"I know," Theila said, "but she's brought that treatment on herself. She refuses to get along with the others. Her pride doesn't allow it. I'm hoping that as soon as she finished her 20th year, I can get her out into the world and have her humbled down."

"If we're being completely honest, I don't think she'll be ready by her 20th year," Brielle admitted, keeping her voice quiet. Theila didn't answer. "None of this is your fault, I hope you know. Some students just can't be taught."

"At the same time, I can't just give up on her." Theila look down the hallway. "She's picked up pyromancy, believe it or not. She's nowhere near a satisfactory mastery, but it's a promising start."

"Hmm," Brielle murmured. "And what about the witcher? Is he still here?"

"He's leaving tomorrow," Theila answered. "He wants to be out as soon as his eyes are better, and I can't keep him here."

"That's a shame," Brielle sighed. "Well, good luck with Cayessa. I've still some unpacking to do. Oh, and the headmistress wants a copy of my reports by tonight. I've only just gotten back and I don't even get a chance to freshen up."

The sorceresses parted ways. Brielle headed up to her lab, hoping her luggage had already been brought up. She needed the ones that held her papers. Warily, the sandy haired woman rubbed circles under her eyes as she rounded the corner. When she looked up, she saw someone waiting for her.

That witcher, Kozin, was leaning his shoulder on the wall. Brielle regarded him with a look of mild surprise as she came up to him. He returned her look with a sly grin.

"Heard you're leaving soon," she told him.

"Need to get back on the Path," he replied.

"Too bad. I didn't even get to show you around the palace," Brielle said. A certain gleam crossed the witcher's eyes. He stepped away from the wall and closed the distance between them. Brielle let her hands slide up Kozin's chest as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

"I've still got time. You could still show me around," he murmured to her. "Not the palace, I mean." He kissed her along the jaw, and then slipped down to her neck. Brielle let out a soft gasp and bit her lip. Her hand rested on the back of his head. "You kept me waiting, Brielle."

She brought a leg up and wrapped it around him. "Well, wait no more, witcher." Kozin brought his face up and kissed her deeply, conveying his lust through the movement of his lips. Her arms tightened around his neck, and she felt his hands slide up and down her back. He parted from her and growled, "Got any room in the lab?"

"Plenty," Brielle replied. As she turned to the laboratory door, she suddenly spotted a figure standing at the end of the hallway. Brielle recognized Cayessa by her golden hair before the girl turned and quickly disappeared behind the corner.

Hesitant, Brielle couldn't help but feel like something awful had just happened. A look back at the witcher secured her fears. He was staring down at the hallway where the girl had disappeared. What was that on his face? Guilt?

"Something the matter?" Brielle ventured.

Immediately, that sure look returned to Kozin's face. "Why would there be?" One arm wrapped around the sorceress's waist, and the other reached out to open the laboratory door. "Now where were we?"

* * *

 _So what if I'm not your version of perfect?_

 _I'm sorry that wrong never seemed so right_

 _I wouldn't change a thing about me_

' _Cause I know who I am inside_

 _A pretty tragedy_

 _I'm a pretty tragedy_

"Pretty Tragedy"—Nikki Flores


	41. Chapter 41 - Pyromaniac

Glamor, she discovered, didn't conceal red, puffy eyes. Besides, it kept getting wiped off by the tears and the pillow that she buried her face in to scream. In the privacy of her own room, she cried whenever she thought about it. And she _always_ thought about it.

He'd kissed her. She thought it had meant something. She'd wanted it to mean something. When the witcher had wrestled control out of her hands, he had also taken her heart. She thought he loved her too.

Cayessa huffed as she lifted her damp, red face from the pillow. She sniffed and dug her fingers through her hair. They were right. The witcher hated her. There was nothing behind that kiss. He had kissed another woman. Why? Was it because she was a better sorceress? Did he think she was prettier?

At that thought, the girl shoved her face into the pillow again and shrieked out the fresh knot of frustration that bunched in her stomach. It was late, but she couldn't sleep. It had been like this for the past few nights. She was tired, but her head wouldn't let her sleep. She had lessons in a few hours.

It was stupid. It was all stupid. Falling in love with the witcher was stupid. Thinking he would whisk her off her feet and take her away was stupid. Wanting to be happy in this crummy place was stupid. And the witcher! He was stupid!

Cayessa rolled onto her side and tucked her hands underneath the pillow. Why did no one like her?

A tear darkened the pillowcase.

* * *

Morning came bright and early. Theila was already up even before Pascal had stirred. Today was a busy day—Kozin was leaving, Cayessa needed more practice, and on top of it all, a local baron was sending a party to Vintrica to scout out a sorceress to be his advisor. Included in the party was the baron's own second son, Verrick Delosi.

The young man was training as a lawyer, and thus his father intended to have his son utilize his expertise to find a suitable court mage. The headmistress and a line of other Magi, including Theila, met the party when they arrived. Theila gave the guests a welcoming smile and noticed how Verrick's eyes flitted over each of them in a steely, calculating manner. Even his returning smile seemed preconceived.

Sir Verrick shared the same good looks that had adorned his father's face when the baron had been that age. Theila remembered those days well. She also remembered how the then to-be baron Bruned had tried to woo her to his bed. More than once.

Theila concealed her smile as she recalled how she had kept the persistent suitor a secret from Undevar. If she hadn't, the young man before her wouldn't have had the chance to exist.

The headmistress led the party inside, while the Magi followed only once the guests had gone inside. Trailing behind them, Theila could hear the headmistress conversing with Verrick. "I think you'll find no short supply of talented, intelligent candidates here," Gloria said. "Vintrica has sorceresses seated in the Imperial courts as well."

"That is most impressive. What range of expertise do your mages cover?"

"Too many to name in one breath, Sir Verrick. Might I inquire what kind of profile your father has in mind?"

Theila's focus on the conversation was interrupted when one of the other Magi nudged her on the arm and asked about the baron. "Was he not the one that had been so keen on you?"

"I'm afraid so," Theila replied softly. "Good to know he finally moved on."

"Maybe not," the Magi teased, her eyes glimmering wickedly beneath her low, black bangs. "Perhaps he's sent his son to fetch a certain olive-eyed face from his youth?"

Theila rolled her eyes. "Even if that were true, I'd have to send another refusal Bruned's way. I am not, nor will I ever be, willing to be a court mage." She glanced out a window as they passed it, noticing how sunlight flowed through in slanted beams. "My apologies, ladies. I didn't aim to stay this long. If I don't head out soon, my apprentice will think I've forgone today's lesson."

That opportunity to slip away from Verrick's party came when it was time for the baron's son and his companions to meet and talk with a number other mistresses who were eager to vie favor for themselves or for their apprentices. The Magi were dismissed, and Theila headed off.

Now in the training chamber, she flipped through her planner. The lack of checkmarks by the list of objectives bothered her. Cayessa had been doing quite well, but then just recently her pyromancy had suddenly become just as poor as ever. Her attitude also returned to brashness and disobedience. Perhaps Kozin's little 'scare' hadn't been as effective as he had hoped.

Cayessa appeared, 15 minutes late. Not the latest she'd been, but that wasn't the point. Theila watched her apprentice sternly as the girl stood around and rubbed her eyes, waiting for instructions. She looked awful—exhausted with rings so dark they stood out from under her eyeshadow.

"Trouble sleeping?" Theila asked. Cayessa didn't answer. "Cay—."

"I'm fine," the girl grumbled.

"Do not speak to me in that tone," Theila shot back. Cayessa glared back, but nodded to avoid more trouble. Theila exhaled slowly to calm herself and look across the chamber. There were a few things left in the chamber from yesterday's practice—a row of candles and a cold hearth. These were things that even a witcher with their simple Igni sign could light. Yesterday, Cayessa struggled with lighting her second candle. And the hearth had been a lost cause.

"Let's just start simply," Theila suggested. "Stand here and light one candle."

It took a couple of tries. Too many for just _one_ candle. When the wick was finally lit, Theila felt as though she could finally let out her breath. "Now the rest," she instructed. "All of them at once."

"Why?" Cayessa resisted, pulling a face.

"Because," Theila replied in a slow, heated voice, "if we had you standing here lighting candles one by one all day, you would get no where." Frustrated, the sorceress couldn't stop herself from adding the remark, "We shouldn't even still be lighting candles at this point, Cayessa."

"So I'm a failure is what you're saying?" Cayessa snapped, whirling around to face her mentor with her hands digging into her hips.

"I didn't say that, no."

"But you make that obvious enough!" Cayessa threw her arms up. "Why even bother? I can't learn a thing from you! All I hear is 'no, no, you're doing it wrong!' You're a terrible teacher!"

"I don't want to hear this from you!" Theila shot back. She threw a hand towards the candles. "If you'd open your ears, maybe things would come easier for you. Now get back to the candles! You remember how to do simultaneous ignitions, correct?"

"Stop acting like I don't know anything!" The apprentice turned back to the candles.

Before she could start, Theila spoke up quietly, "Cayessa, what's been bothering you?"

"Nothing!"

"Is this about Kozin?"

 _"It's none of your business!"_ The small bulb of fire on the other side of the room suddenly leapt up before returning to normal size.

"Okay," Theila replied quickly. "I just… Let's just get back to the candles."

"That's what I've been _trying_ to do!"

Suddenly, there was a curt knock on the door. Both women looked over. It was as if Theila's words had summoned him—there stood the black-haired witcher. Ursine armor covered his body, and his swords were strapped to his back. His amber eyes flew to Cayessa before quickly retreating to Theila's. "About to head out," he told her. "Thought I'd stop by and say goodbye before I did."

Theila let out a melancholy sigh. "Are you sure I can't convince you to stay for a while longer?" she asked as she hurried over to give the big man a hug. "Oh, I know I shouldn't feel this sad, but I do."

"I'll see you next winter. You're coming back to the keep, aye?" Kozin replied, hugging the sorceress back.

"Only for a bit, I'm afraid. I can't stay the entire winter," Theila replied as she stepped back. She glanced back and saw that the girl had not moved from where she stood. "Cayessa, don't be rude. Come and bid Kozin farewell."

Reluctantly, Cayessa peeled away from her stiff posture and joined them. Kozin looked down at the girl, who met his eyes with a fierce stare. Theila glanced between the two, unable to shake off the feeling that something tense was going on between them. Why else would Kozin look so wary, and Cayessa so angry?

"I…" The witcher was cut off when Cayessa suddenly raised a hand to be kissed. Kozin took it, making the girl's slender hand look even smaller, and bowed his head down to kiss it. As he did, a crack in Cayessa's cross expression appeared. For the most fleeting of moments, a look of sorrow and longing took residence in the girl's eyes before she quickly furrowed her brow again.

"Good bye, witcher," Cayessa proclaimed as Kozin raised his head. "And may your stony heart protect you from the dangers and monsters that will surely fill your path."

Theila's mouth tightened into a line, but Kozin's face didn't change. He lowered Cayessa's hand before letting it drop from his own. "And farewell to you, Cayessa. Good luck with your training."

The girl crossed her arms and turned her shoulders away from him. Theila wondered what could have brought on Cayessa's iciness. Was it still because of that kiss? "Cayessa, back to the candles please," Theila ordered. The girl obeyed and whirled away from Kozin a little too quickly.

Theila walked with the witcher to the door of the chamber. There, Kozin paused and looked down at Theila. "Noticed a gaggle of fancy cuffs here," he noted.

"That would be Verrick Dolesi, son of Baron Bruned Delosi," Theila explained as she crossed her arms. "He's here to find an advisor for his father."

"That so?" Kozin remarked. "Why don't I mosey over and put in a recommendation for you then?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't," Theila replied. "The life of a court mage isn't the one for me."

"Aye, I hear you," Kozin said. "Living under prissy higher ups, trying to solve all the damned problems they pass onto you. Sounds like a right nightmare."

"To a witcher, especially." Theila hesitated. "Stay safe out there, okay Kozin?"

"I'll be sure to lace my boots especially tight."

"I'm serious."

"Theila, you ought to know safety and my profession don't mix," Kozin stated. The sorceress looked down and nodded. She felt him wrap his arms around her again. "Don't worry about me."

"Just promise me you'll take every possible precaution," Theila said, "so I'll be able to see you in the winter."

"I promise." His arms dropped from her. Theila watched him walk out of the chamber. "I'll see you later," he told her over his shoulder, and then disappeared down the hall. Theila took a deep breath, and then closed the chamber door. When she turned, Cayessa was standing with her hands on her hips. All of the candles were lit.

"Now what?" Instead of looking at Theila, the girl's eyes were trained on the door through which Kozin had left.

"There's still one more," Theila reminded her, gesturing towards the empty hearth. Cayessa stared at it. "Remember, bigger fires require more energy."

"I know!"

"If you're so sure, then do it." All the sorrow from Kozin's departure was quickly pushed aside, replaced by newfound irritation at her apprentice. She listened to Cayessa's incantation and watched the movements the girl made with her arms. They all seemed fine, but no fire appeared on the stacked logs. Theila's finger tapped against her arm. It was something that was so simple!

"You're not focusing," the sorceress chided. "Concentrate on the hearth, nothing else."

"That's what I was doing!"

"Cayessa, do _not_ use that tone!"

"You always tell me I'm not focusing! That's all you ever say! I'm trying! Do you think I _want_ to stand around lighting candles and fireplaces all day?"

"If you didn't bite back whenever I tried to help, maybe you'd be getting somewhere! No wonder you barely have any concentration left to cast spells! You're too busy spending it all on talking back!" Theila thrust a finger towards the hearth. "Light it! Now!"

Though Cayessa glared daggers, Theila could have sworn she saw them begin to glimmer with tears before the girl turned back to the hearth. She was in the middle of her incantation when the grinding of the chamber door opening interrupted her. Theila looked over and felt her heart sink when she saw Headmistress Gloria and Verrick at the threshold.

"Apologies, Theila," Gloria said, a knowing look crossing her face when she saw the candles and the unlit hearth. "I thought this chamber was empty. Sir Verrick has requested a tour of the facilities, you see." To the baron's son, she said, "This is another of our training chambers. This one is built for pyromancy. The walls are insulated and there is a coolant system that keeps the room from becoming too overheated. This chamber sees a lot of fire."

"Ah," Verrick said, his eyes scanning every bit of the chamber. "And might I see a demonstration of a training session? You won't mind, Lady…?"

"Theila. And this is my apprentice, Cayessa." The golden-haired girl gave the baron's son a greeting that was far friendlier than what she had offered to Kozin, much to Theila's relief. But she didn't know how to convey to Verrick that she _did_ mind him spectating their training. The last thing Cayessa needed was additional pressure. At the same time, she couldn't turn the baron's son away. "If that is what you wish, then you are welcomed to stay." She tried to ignore the accusing glare that Cayessa shot towards her.

Verrick nodded and stepped into the chamber. Gloria followed. Stiff-shouldered, Cayessa turned back towards the hearth.

"Pyromancy," Verrick remarked. "Magic by means of fire. I figured the sorceresses of Vintrica used pyromancy for more than simply lighting wicks."

"Pyromancy is a very delicate and dangerous practice," Theila defended. "This kind of magic requires severe control and self-discipline. Candles are a safe start."

Verrick crossed his arms. "Well let's see it then."

Theila put on a cheerful smile and turned back to Cayessa. "Let's continue," she said. The girl shot her an uneasy glance. Theila could only return with a nod. Cayessa turned back to the hearth. She spoke the words of the spell. They sounded fine, but Theila didn't miss the nervous tone in her voice.

She finished her incantation with a final gesture of her arm. What followed after was… nothing. No warmth from the logs. No fire. Nothing. Just a cold hearth. Theila lowered her eyes.

There was a tense, uncomfortable silence. "Pyromancy is tricky," Theila began, trying to ease the tension. "It is not an easy thing to begin, Cayessa. But once you master it, it will come nat—."

"What was that?" Verrick suddenly demanded. Theila's hands tightened on her arms as the nobleman stepped forward, and then pivoted on his heel to face the young sorceress. "How old are you?" Theila noticed the way the man's eyes examined Cayessa's body, using certain features to gauge her age. "And you still can't even ignite a few pieces of wood?"

"Get off my back, won't you?" Cayessa retorted. "I'm getting there!"

Verrick's eyes flashed at her response, but he let it slide. "Very well," he said. "Try again then." Theila took a step closer as Cayessa looked to the hearth again. The apprentice repeated her spell. This time, Theila heard the forced confidence in her words.

Again, the results were the same. No fire. Theila could practically feel the girl's exasperation radiating off of her. She heard Gloria release a slow breath. Movement suddenly caught her eye. Verrick was walking away from them and towards the hearth. The young man, upon reaching the fireplace, used the black leather toe of his boot to kick the logs apart.

"Not even smoldering," he remarked. Beside her, Theila saw Cayessa cross her arms over her stomach as though to hold in her shame.

"I assure you, Sir Verrick," Gloria said, her voice ringing with austerity. "That this is not a prime example of Vintrica's apprentices. Many, as I will show you in a moment, take to their magical abilities at very satisfactory rates. There is no barrel, after all, without at least one rotting apple."

Theila shot a wide-eyed look at Gloria, but the headmistress's serious face was unbending. It was clear the headmistress was not pleased by this embarrassing show in front of her important guest. Looking back down, Theila placed a hand on Cayessa's back. The girl quickly shrugged it off.

"I don't need your sympathy!" Cayessa hissed, just loud enough for Verrick to hear. The nobleman's eyebrows rose.

"Mouthy too, this one," he remarked. "She'd make a poor addition to any court." He crossed his arms and continued, "Quite easy on the eyes, but it seems to be her only attribute."

In that moment, Theila no longer cared who this man was. A sharp, biting reply was ready to springboard from her tongue. No one spoke about her apprentice that way. _No one_. But before she could let lose a single word, something awful happened.

There was a loud boom, no, a roar. It resonated with power and _anger_. Theila had only ever heard a similar sound from Pascal—the day he had discovered what remained of one of his littermates after poachers had gotten to her. Theila felt heat reach her skin and instinctively covered herself and the girl next to her with a timely shield. Tongues of fire licked at the thin, glass-like shield around her before quickly receding as though something had yanked it all away. Through the shield, Theila saw the angry flames retreat back into the hearth, where nothing remained but charred wooden splinters.

A shuddering gasp came from near them. Theila looked over to see Headmistress Gloria, who also had been able to protect herself from the fiery explosion. The headmistress's face was pale as she stared at the hearth. No, what as next to the hearth. Theila's heart sank with realization even before she looked. She remembered how Verrick had been standing right next to the logs. No one had shielded him.

Silence was immediately shattered when the shields dropped. Theila rushed over to the man lying on the ground. His arms, still stuck in the raised position he had brought them up to protect his face with, were bare as the sleeves had burned clean off. Red, boiled flesh was all that was left, and Theila was disturbed at how enticingly familiar his flesh smelled.

The nobleman's arms weren't the only things the flames had mutilated. Verrick's throat could only afford a low, weak groan. The man looked utterly unrecognizable. It was a miracle that he was still alive, though it was a miracle that Vintrica so sorely needed. Theila's mind barely brushed the topic of the damage the school would receive once it became known that Verrick Delosi had become critically wounded within its walls. Currently, her attention was focused on fending death from the burned man in front of her.

She managed to stabilize a spell over Verrick to keep his body from going into shock. But the man needed more extensive, immediate attention. "Headmistress, I need help!" she pleaded as her eyes scanned over the mounds of charred flesh. There wasn't an inch of him that had been spared. "Cayessa, go get the others. Get the Magi!"

Theila looked back at the young girl, who hadn't moved. Her pale eyes were wide and streams of tears had cut down her face. "Cayessa!"

"I didn't… I didn't mean to…"

"Not now!" Theila snapped. "Get the Magi! Go!"

Cayessa turned on her heel and raced out of the room. The next hour was a flurry of panic and stress. Theila and Gloria managed to keep Verrick from succumbing to his wounds long enough for the other Magi to flood in. They worked until his vitals showed signs of stability, and then brought him to the infirmary. There, they had a calmer, closer look at his wounds. The young man was a mess—covered in scalded, bubbled skin. The skin of his arms had been seared together, and had to be separated in order for the sorceresses to lower them down and work on his face.

Theila had since left the infirmary, but the sight of Verrick's head still followed her. She didn't doubt the healing abilities of the Magi, but it would be a long time before _that_ would ever resemble a face again.

The halls were emptied. The mistresses had gone to the infirmary, or were trying to placate the rest of the party that had come with Verrick. They had furiously demanded to know the one who had been responsible for the attack on the baron's son. Theila felt eyes fall pointedly on her as one of the sorceresses responded, "It was a training accident, nothing more. We are deeply sorry for this tragedy, and are currently in the midst of investigating what happened. The responsible party will be found and dealt with on our terms."

Now Theila's heels echoed loudly against the bare stone walls as she made her way up to Cayessa's room. She didn't know what to say when she came face-to-face with her apprentice. What happened in the training room was Cayessa's fault, yes, but Theila couldn't help but feel some shard of responsibility. She wished she could have stopped the nobleman before he incited Cayessa's anger, or at least been alert enough to protect him from the explosion. Now, Verrick Delosi was a smoking heap in a bed and Vintrica was in deep shit.

Cayessa's door was ajar and the room was empty. Theila paused to think for a second, and then returned to the stairwell to ascend up to the rooftop.

In one corner of Vintrica's rectangular rooftop lay a mess of tree branches and entire bushes torn up to the roots. They all were bunched in a seemingly aimless mess, unless the dragon was there to lie upon his nest. And he was there today, neck arched and head up to enjoy the feeling of the midday sun on his face. His legs were tucked underneath his body and his wings folded against his sides.

Upon hearing Theila's approach, the film of Pascal's nictitating membrane slid from his eye and he quickly ducked his snake-like neck down until his chin touched his right wing. The dragon watched the sorceress warily, but otherwise indicated no hostility towards her.

"I need to talk to her," Theila told the dragon. Pascal paused for a moment, stewing over the sorceress's words. It was clear the beast was reluctant to let anyone near Cayessa, sensing the obvious distress that she was in. But as much as he cared for the golden-haired girl, he was also obedient to her mistress. Pascal lifted his head and raised his wing enough to show the apprentice huddled against the dragon's reddish-bronze side. Theila stopped just outside of Pascal's nest.

"Cayessa."

"Is he dead?" The girl was crying—that much was clear from her voice.

"He's not," Theila answered. Cayessa didn't move. "It'll be a while, but I'm sure the damage can be reversed. Cayessa, can you come out here, please? We need to talk."

"I know! I know it's my fault!" At no point would she look at Theila. "I just got so mad and… I didn't know I would do that! I didn't mean to, I just… Wh-what he was saying, and how the headmistress also said those things!"

Theila sighed. Gloria had thrown Cayessa under the wagon in that training chamber just to save a bit of face. But Vintrica was a proud, established school, and the headmistress had been right. Cayessa was a bit of a black sheep… an embarrassment, even.

"But he was right. No one even cares. I thought if I was pretty, that would be enough. But it's not. Not even the witcher…"

"Witcher?" Theila repeated.

"Just… Leave me alone! I want to be alone right now!" Cayessa suddenly shouted. Her rage elicited a concerned rumble from Pascal as he craned his neck around to peer at her. "Go away! I don't want anyone to look at me right now!"

Theila pressed two fingers against her temple where she was starting to feel the throb of a headache grow. "Everyone knows it was an accident." Well, that was partially the truth. "The Magi just want to know what happened. I know you're in no state to stand before them right now, so I'll tell them that you'll explain everything in the morning, okay? Just use tonight to cool down. Are you fine with that, Cayessa?" The girl didn't answer. Theila sighed again. "I'll come check on you tonight."

She went back downstairs to tell the headmistress about the plan. Gloria wasn't pleased at first—she wanted her answers as quickly as possible. After Theila explained the delicate state that Cayessa was in, the headmistress finally relented. "Besides," Theila added, "all the Magi will be too busy tending to Sir Verrick's wounds tonight."

Evening arrived when Theila returned to the infirmary. The air was filled with a combination of torched cloth and cooked flesh. Theila couldn't help but cover her lower face with a hand as she stood against a wall to watch the Magi work. One of them broke away to stand with Theila. After pulling down the scarf from her face, it was revealed to be Brielle.

"I've never seen burn wounds like that," Brielle whispered. "Gloria said it was a training accident. Whose apprentice did it?"

Theila grimaced. "Mine."

 _"Cayessa?_ Cayessa burned him?"

"As Gloria said, it was an accident."

The sandy-haired sorceress was silent for a moment. "Even if it is, this isn't going to go down well once word leaks out from here." Theila had feared that too. They all did. The public, ever wary of magic users, would be up in arms. Their protests would find sympathy amongst many noble houses harboring anti-magic sentiments. Knowing them, they'd twist the news of this accident into more propaganda. And then there was the Church of Eternal Fire. Currently, the Church's strongest view was opposing the Cult of the Lion-Headed Spider. Vintrica, and any other school of sorcery for that matter, was nothing like the cult's dark priestesses, though it was the fear of many Magi that the Church would eventually begin pigeonholing all magic users into that same category.

Theila exhaled into her hand. "Vintrica will be fine," she insisted. "The school's done enough favors for the Koviri throne to keep it in good standing."

"People are _scared_ of us, Theila," Brielle said. "Having spent all that time outside of Vintrica, you can't deny that. I'm just worried what that fear will spur them into doing."

"There's no point in standing around and fretting," Theila replied. "We'll worry about falling under political fire once we do. In the meantime, we need to mitigate any injury this event caused. Gloria will probably be calling council tonight."

Brielle ducked her head down to rub her eyes. "And Cayessa?" she finally asked. "How is she?"

"As you'd expect," Theila answered. "She thought she'd killed him."

"Is she being brought to tonight's council?"

"I won't allow it," Theila said firmly. "She's in no condition to speak in front of an audience tonight. I've promised Gloria tomorrow morning."

"Morning will never seem so far away," Brielle said. "I'm sure everyone will be dying to hear what happened." One of the Magi called Brielle over, and the sorceress quickly left to answer. Theila stood alone at the wall, watching the wall of backs crowd around Verrick's bed. She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering how things had gotten so grim. She longed for the few weeks prior when she had been in the Bear keep for the winter—sitting in front of the fire in Undevar's study with the grandmaster beside her. He would rub circles into her back while he told her of the progress he had made with the youngest novitiates, and together they would ignore all the problems that brewed outside the keep.

A reckless voice in Theila's head suddenly spoke up, bidding her to disappear into a portal and fall into the shelter of his arms again. But she couldn't, no matter how much she wanted to. She couldn't leave this mess behind, and she couldn't leave Cayessa like this either. Speaking of the girl…

Theila opened her eyes back up as one of the Magi called for a clean basin of water. Someone scurried off to complete the order. Theila slipped back out of the infirmary and headed upstairs. The Cayessa's door was closed, and Theila knocked a few times before entering.

The girl had been sitting on the edge of her bed, a book open in her lap. The treated leather covers quickly snapped shut as Theila stepped in. Cayessa stared wordlessly down at the floor. Her eyes lifted when Theila took a seat beside her. The woman wrapped an arm around her apprentice's shoulder. "Reading?" Under Theila's arm, Cayessa shrugged. "That's good. Do whatever you need to take your mind off of things."

"I caused a lot of trouble, didn't I?"

Theila hesitated. She didn't know whether to sugarcoat her words or give Cayessa the truth. The sorceress elected to go in between. "Maybe," she answered. "But it's nothing we can't handle."

"I don't want people to hate us." Cayessa lifted her head a little. "If they do, just tell them it was me. It won't matter if everyone hates me."

"We're not going to do that," Theila said sharply. "No one is going to hate you, or anyone."

Cayessa looked down at her hands, which rested in her lap. "I'm sorry," she suddenly said. "For everything."

Those few words, and the way that Cayessa said them, touched Theila to the core. Her eyes burned, and she mentally scoffed at herself for being so old as she wrapped her other arm around Cayessa and pulled her into a hug. "It's okay," she reassured.

"I know," the girl replied. "It'll be fine. I'll fix everything by morning."

Those words still lingered in the air by the time Theila had left Cayessa to rest for the night. Gloria's council was starting soon. Tonight was going to be a very long night. But Theila couldn't have imagined just how long it was going to be.

It was during the midst of the council, when Gloria and the other Magi were discussing means of reconciliation for the Delosi house, when the charm on Theila's necklace suddenly began to hum and glow a deep orange. The sorceress sat up sharply, and all eyes turned to her.

Theila's hand flew up to her necklace as she rose to her feet.

"Theila, do I need to remind you that we are in council. What is it?"

"My laboratory," Theila answered quickly. "I'm sorry, headmistress." She scooted past her chair and hurried out of the room. As she came down the passage that led to her lab, she saw that the door had been left wide open. Theila stopped at the doorway and scanned the entire space with a spell. Whoever had intruded was gone.

Theila cast another to reveal what had changed in the past hour. The cloud produced by the spell settled over a locked cabinet. Or what had been locked—it too had been broken into and left wide open. Theila hurried over.

Inside was a rack of hypodermic needles. One was missing from the rack. Then, the cloud split in two, and one half drifted away from the rack. It quickly flew over to another open cabinet on the other side of the lab. This one had held vials of dimeridium suspension, and the two empty spaces among the vials immediately worried Theila. Dimederium was dangerous substance, especially to the women who walked the halls of Vintrica. And in its liquid-like suspension state, the dimeridium was… certainly able to fill a hypodermic needle.

Eyes wide, Theila whirled around as if expecting some syringe-wielding assassin to be standing right behind her. The lab was empty, save for herself and her summoned clouds. One of which had come to a stop by her door. Theila went over and found a piece of paper on the floor. She snatched it up, her frantic gaze sweeping over the paper's brief message.

 _I'm sorry for being a burden. Everyone was right. I am useless. Don't look for me._

At the sorceress's call, Pascal appeared in front of Theila's laboratory, his wings steadily beating the air as he suspended himself in front of the open dome. "I need him," she told the dragon. "Find him and bring him here."

* * *

 _Drink up, baby doll_

 _Are you in or are you out?_

 _Leave your things behind_

' _Cause it's all going off without you_

 _Excuse me, too busy—you're writing your tragedy_

 _These mishaps you bubble-wrap_

 _When you've no idea what you're like_

"Let Go"—Frou Frou


	42. Chapter 42 - Horrible, Stinking Brute

_**Part of this chapter may or may not have been written while tipsy...**_

* * *

The cute, freckled barmaid was a refreshing and much needed distraction from the hazel eyes and golden locks that kept surfacing in his mind. Her red braid came over her shoulder and followed the outer curve of her breast. A tight leather corset pinned the frilly, white chemise to the young woman's waist.

Kozin had spent the past hour entertaining the barmaid with a few tales—hunts, mysteries he'd solved of disappearing people and beasts crawling around in the night… the usual. The moment the pretty little thing reflexively touched his arm while she laughed, Kozin knew he had her.

The witcher turned his head to blow a stream of smoke away from the girl. When he looked back, he saw the barmaid watching him with an absentminded smile. An arm was propped on to the table, and her face leaned on her closed fist. At the sight of her, a corner of Kozin's mouth tugged up in a satisfied grin. He parted his lips and used the tip of the smoking pipe to trace curve of his lower lip.

He was rewarded with the reaction he wanted—the barmaid pinched her lips tightly and squirmed in her seat. It seemed the witcher notices he had picked up earlier were going to have to wait—his agenda for tonight was filled.

"When is your shift over, bonnie?" he rumbled before taking another drag.

"Midnight," the girl answered quickly.

"Hmm," Kozin purred. "Witching hour. You ought to be careful, lass."

He felt the barmaid's leg brush against his own. "I'll need a witcher to escort me home."

Kozin lowered his pipe and leaned towards the barmaid. "That can be arranged." The girl sat still, frozen in place as the witcher's face came closer. Her lower lip quivered, and Kozin fought down the spark it unsettled within him. That sort of excitement was for later after he'd completed his "contract" with her, not here in a busy tavern. As his face hovered inches above hers, Kozin saw the barmaid take a deep breath. Suddenly, it wasn't her face under him.

As if plagued by a fever dream, the witcher saw hazel eyes and golden hair. His mind cruelly played the scent of vanilla across his nose, replacing the tavern's atmospheric smell of alcohol and baked bread. Startled, Kozin withdrew, gripping the edge of the table for support.

At the witcher's unexpected reaction, the barmaid also leaned back. Kozin coughed and placed an elbow on the table. "Didn't mean to jump like that, lass," he apologized as he quickly whisked up his half-empty tankard. He sent the barmaid a sly wink. "Nearly lost control of myself looking into those pretty eyes of yours."

The young woman blushed. "Oh you stop that!" she tittered, playing with her braid. Kozin broke his eyes away from her as he took a swift drink from the tankard. The people here knew how to make their spirits, he mused as the drink's bitterness saturated his tongue and burned down his throat. He needed every distraction he could get.

The opening of the tavern door drew the barmaid's eyes as she glanced over to check the newest patron. Kozin didn't look, still focused on the girl. He was wondering whether to tease the lass with a little brush on the shoulder, or perhaps lean close again. Probably unwise. She needed to be collected enough to finish up her shift, after all.

The barmaid still hadn't looked away from the newcomer. Her eyebrows were knitted together as she mumbled, "Oh, that's one of those odd ones. I don't like it when they come in." Kozin finally looked back.

It was a tall man, or what Kozin presumed was a man from the broad shoulders. No clear features on the stranger could actually be seen under his heavy cloak. Even his face was dipped down so that no one could see past his hood. Kozin wondered how the man even managed to see, and had his thought promptly answered when the stranger bumped into a thickset man. Kozin recognize the heavy bastard immediately—he had only been the loudest, most irritating patron all night. That mouth never knew silence or even moderate volume.

And as expected, when the tavern bully felt someone knock into him, he whirled around with a deafening shout and seized the hooded stranger by the shoulder. "Oi, watch 'oo yer crackin' shoulders with, ye bleedin' loon! Ye want me t'knock some sense in i'ya?"

Kozin lowered his pipe onto the table as he watched the commotion. The hooded stranger didn't seem the least bit jarred at his mouthy challenger. His only response was to lift his head a little higher, enough for the thickset man too see into the hood.

Even from where he sat, Kozin could see the color drain from the drunken man's eyes. "What th-th… What the bleedin' fuck?"

The hooded stranger quickly lowered his head and slipped past the thickset man, leaving him to burble out his swears. He was heading over to Kozin's table, much to the witcher's grim anticipation. When there was trouble around, it was always for him.

The barmaid, who had also been watching the interaction just now, quickly stood and hurried away as the hooded stranger took a seat across from Kozin. Now irritated, the witcher turned back towards the table to face the stranger. He was still hidden under the folds of his cloak.

"If you want something from me, you'll have to wait until tomorrow," Kozin growled.

"We cannot wait that long." The stranger's voice was odd. It was deep, like a dragon's rumble. There was a flanging in his voice, as though the sound was echoing within the man's own throat. "Theila needs you now."

"Theila?" Kozin lifted his tankard to his lips as the stranger lifted his head.

Where there should have been a normal face, there was red, leathery skin instead. At the ridges of the man's brows, there were no eyebrows—the red skin rose up in sharp, pointed scales that shimmered iridescent in the tavern's dim lighting. His eyes were a fierce gold, and narrow slit pupils, much like Kozin's own, peered at him.

Kozin quickly lowered his tankard as he choked on his swig. Fighting down the ale, he finally managed to exclaim, _"Pascal?"_

"Witcher," the dragon greeted. "Please, tarry no more. I must bring you back to Vintrica."

"Why? What happened?"

"All will be explained upon your return." At that, Pascal lowered his face again and stood. Kozin let out a heavy breath, knowing the dragon wouldn't hear any resistance. Not that Kozin would offer any—if Theila needed him, he would go.

The door swung open, and the two filed out into the night. Pascal's swift, steady gait never slowed until they were far out from the borders of the town. Civilization grew far behind them, and nothing but crickets, fireflies, and the shushing of grass accompanied them in the darkness.

Suddenly, the figure in front of the witcher began changing before his very eyes. First was the cloak—the cloth morphed into a deep red hue and began to unfurl into wings. The body between those wings began to rapidly expand until the dragon had resumed its usual form. A deep grumble reverberated from his long neck as he turned his head back to give the witcher a waiting look. Kozin sighed.

"We aren't doing this, are we?"

The dragon gave no answer. He flapped a wing, impatiently beckoning. Kozin finally obliged, digging the toe of his boot into a crack in the dragon's large, tile-like scales. When he had finally perched himself between Pascal's shoulders, Kozin felt the beast underneath him shift as the wings unfurled and expanded to their full length.

"Fuck m—."

The simultaneous push of Pascal's legs from the ground and the sweep of his wings launched the both of them so quickly the witcher's groan was cut off.

* * *

Reaching Theila's laboratory was a relief like none other. As a young boy, Kozin had often wondered what it would be like to ride atop a flying creature. Now he knew, and he wasn't too keen on getting on the back of one any time soon.

Theila was pacing when Kozin found her, and she looked as though she had been doing so for quite a while. Her eyes were filled with worry as she glanced over at him. "Kozin," she said. "I need your help. Cayessa's disappeared—I don't know how this happened, a-and I think she might've—."

"Slow down," Kozin interrupted, bracing a hand against her arm. The sorceress looked about ready to keel over. "Start from the beginning."

Theila put a hand over his and took a deep breath. She looked past Kozin. "Thank you," she told the dragon that had perched against the cliff side. "You can go now, Pascal." The dragon didn't move. "I know you're concerned. I am too. Gravely. But I promise you we'll do what we can, Kozin and I." Still Pascal remained, gazing at Theila with solemn eyes.

"Let him hear what's going on," Kozin said. He guided the sorceress to the nearby armchair. She sank heavily into it. "Now what happened? Something to do with Cayessa?"

"I'll explain everything later, but right now you just need to know that Cayessa is in danger." Theila pointed at a book on a nearby table. Kozin stepped over to it and lifted the cover to peer at a page. "It's a book of coordinates. I found her looking through it earlier. It seems she was looking for locations. And it seems after she found one she came here, into my laboratory, and opened a portal. Luckily, even after portals close, there are still remnants lingering that—well, all you need to know is that we were able to pull the coordinates she could have used. The problem is…" Theila slowed herself down with a deep sigh. "The problem is, she opened decoy portals too. There were multiple sets of coordinates that were found."

"Didn't think she was capable of this."

"Nor I," Theila answered. "I would be proud, but, well…"

Kozin's eyebrows raised, but he could feel his heart sinking in the opposite direction. "So you want me to go looking through each of these portals?"

Theila shook her head. "No," she said sharply. "There isn't enough time for that." Restless, the sorceress rose to her feet and began pacing again. "Besides, we've managed to narrow it down to two possible portals. I'll go through one, and you'll go through the other. We'll look for her at the same time, and maybe one of us can find her before… before…"

Kozin watched her, waiting for an answer. It seemed the sorceress was too afraid to put her thoughts into words, and instead busied herself by beginning to open the portals. "Before what?" Kozin finally insisted.

With the portals stabilized, Theila turned back to him. "I found two things missing from my laboratory," she said. "A hypodermic needle and a few vials of dimeridium suspension."

"Dimeridium?" Kozin repeated.

"Suspension," Theila finished. "You know what that is, right?"

"Like mercury for magic users. Just as toxic."

"Exactly." Worry crowded Theila's eyes. "Two vials. More than enough for a lethal injection, especially for a girl her size." She turned back to the portals. "One leads to Pont Vanis at the very tip of Kovir. The other is an undisclosed location—somewhere northeast of Blaviken."

"I'll take the unknown one," Kozin volunteered immediately. He shot a look at Theila, warning her not to argue. The sorceress offered no resistance. She held something out for the witcher to take—some kind of cylindrical wooden trinket on a short chain. A seam split its middle "If you find her, twist this. It will relay to me your exact location so I can find you." As Kozin closed his hand around the trinket, Theila added, "Good luck. Stay safe, please."

"You too, Theila."

He watched the sorceress disappear through her portal first. As she stepped through, the roaring white tendrils shrouded her back, and in a blink, she had gone through in a flash of light. Then, the portal slowly began closing in on itself. Kozin cleared his throat as he looked to his own portal. He was never fond of those wide, roaring abysses.

Kozin glanced over at Pascal, who dipped his regal head in a nod. The witcher quickly reminded himself that time was of the essence and marched through his portal. A blinding flash of light seared his vision away for the briefest of moments, and then he found himself standing alone with nothing but the quiet night air around him. He was in a stretch of backwoods. Leaves overhead shivered in the light breeze, softly filling the witcher's surroundings with an atmospheric flutter. He could smell and hear a river flowing nearby. Its bank couldn't have been more than 20 feet away.

Directing his eyes to the ground, Kozin stepped through the quiet forest. There were signs that something bipedal had traversed through here. The prints were light. Certainly favorable signs of a young sorceress.

They led closer towards the river, and then followed alongside the flowing water. As Kozin walked, the tall vegetation whispered as it brushed against his legs. Skinny trees leaned towards him, forcing the witcher to duck as he continued to follow the tracks. At the river's edge, a flat, expansive bush grew. Its vine-like arms reached down into the water, trailing with the river's flow. Small, circular magenta flowers grew between the leaves, occasionally dropping petals into the water. The tracks had stopped here next to the bush. Some branches showed sign of disturbance, and Kozin's sharp eyes caught the stub of a plucked flower.

Across the river, the land rose up in a short cliff. Horizontal lines cut across the rock's face, carved by the river over years. The tracks led further along the bank to a point where a large rock in the center made the water crossable. Here, the cliff on the opposite side had sloped down until it was only about three feet above the water's surface. With two large steps, Kozin crossed the river. On the other side, the tracks went the opposite direction of the river, back up the cliff. As they ascended, they led away from the water.

The ground along the slope grew slippery with gravel. With each step, Kozin had to dig his toes deep into the small, crumbly stones to keep his footing. Suddenly, something caught his eye. A small patch of gravel glistened unnaturally in the moonlight. It was covered in a slick coat of silver. Dimeridium suspension, Kozin recognized. Cayessa had been here. She'd stumbled climbing up this slope and dropped her vial. But there was only enough on the ground to indicate that one had been spilled.

Further up, the slope eventually leveled out. The trees grew scarce here, though the floor was covered in a plush layer of fine grass. Wildflowers peppered the green carpet in white, pink, and yellow. The air smelled of grass, sweet nectar and… vanilla.

A solitary tree grew amongst the flowers, stretching high and wide. Small, pale blossoms dotted its boughs, and some of those flowers had withered to make way for bulbous fruit.

A small mound lay at the base of the tree. Kozin's eyes snapped to her still form, and his steps quickened. She was lying on her back when he found her. Golden locks splayed out from her head and weaved through the fine strands of grass. Her eyes were closed as though she were asleep, lips parted to allow weak breaths to flow in and out. The witcher's eyes followed the trickle of blood that started from her upper arm and pooled in the crack of her elbow. In the grass, a short distance from her either hand, laid a half-filled syringe. A bead of silver hung from the point of the needle.

"Fuck!" Kozin hissed as he crouched over the girl. He pressed two fingers into her neck, barely feeling a pulse.

What was he supposed to do? He didn't know how to cure dimeridium poisoning, and his potions would do her more harm than good. Then he remembered what Theila had given him.

Kozin had jus reached into his pocket when he heard Cayessa give a shuddering breath. Her eyes flickered open, but just barely. He paused as the girl's glazed eyes found him. She groaned. Kozin forgot what he had been doing and reached down to gently collect the girl in his arms. He supported the back of her head with one hand.

"W… witcher." Her voice could barely leak from her lips. "What… are you doing… in heaven?"

"Lass, this ain't heaven," he told her.

"W…" Cayessa's arm twitched. She didn't even have the strength to lift it. "But I…"

"That's enough talking out of you," Kozin told her. He glanced over at the syringe in the grass. Only half of that small vial had managed to get into her system. Given enough luck, she might be able to pull through. Once again, his mind returned to the trinket.

Before he could do anything, he felt Cayessa's hand rest over his. "Pretty place… isn't it?" she mumbled. Kozin watched as her eyes drifted close again. "A good place to…"

"Cayessa?"

"I don't… I don't feel good… I…"

Suddenly, she pushed away from his chest, falling out of his arms. As she landed on her side, the girl suddenly heaved. Kozin quickly realized what was going on and reached out to pull Cayessa's hair back as she vomited heavily. Even when there was nothing left, she retched. Her body was trying to reject the poison in the most basic way it could. But it was no use—the dimeridium was already in her bloodstream.

When she finally stilled, Kozin bundled her up against his chest and carried her away from the tree. He brought her down the slope and set her down against the edge of the burbling stream.

"Go on, lass. Clean yourself up," he told her, sitting back. While he had carried her, he considered washing the tears and sweat from her face himself. However, Kozin heeded the tiny voice in his head warning him not to touch her. He remembered his reaction to their kiss—the one he had intended to use as a weapon. It'd backfired. He was burned once, and he wasn't too keen on sticking his hands in the flame again.

Besides this girl, this mess of a girl in front of him, laying on the river's edge was too vulnerable for him to touch. He had seen her type before—girls too lost to understand what they needed. They were fickle, wasting themselves away vying for the wrong kinds of attention. And perhaps, like the seedy men that were attracted to these women like flies, he had taken advantage of her just as badly when he had kissed her.

Kozin pushed the thoughts out of his head as he listened to the abrupt splashes Cayessa's hands made in the water. He wasn't like those men. He wasn't the kind of witcher Malthe had said he was.

Wait, why was he thinking of that man again? It had been years since any memory of that villain had surfaced in his mind. Kozin clenched his teeth together, staring out into the trees across the river. He began to crave his pipe.

Cayessa's cough brought him out of his well of thoughts. The girl pushed herself away from the water's edge. Mud stained her dress and bits of grass clung to her hair. But to him, she still looked irresistible.

Uncomfortable, the witcher looked away. He knew he needed to call Theila. Running a finger along the cylindrical outline in his pouch, Kozin found himself hesitating. He wanted answers, and he knew Cayessa wouldn't give them to him if Theila were around. Kozin dropped his hand back into his lap.

"Cayessa," he began. She looked over at him. Tears had pushed the eyeshadow down her face, and Kozin wrangled with the urge to wipe those marks away. "Tell me why."

She stared at him, her lips unmoving. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head before dropping it. "You tell me why, witcher," she replied.

"What do you mean?"

"You're a witcher," she said. "But what if you were a witcher that couldn't swing a sword properly? Couldn't kill a single monster? Couldn't meet any expectations placed on you? What would you do then?"

Kozin was silent as he absorbed her words. He couldn't imagine being as incompetent as Cayessa described. Being a witcher was the only thing he knew. He'd taken to the witcher trade like a fledging learning to fly. Of course, his main drive was knowing that the witcher's Path gave him a second life. What else would he have been without the school? The starving child of a struggling woman? How long would he have lasted like that?

"No answer? I thought as much."

Kozin grunted. "Lass, I've got your answer: if I weren't a good witcher, I'd be a dead one. And if I wasn't a witcher at all, I'd also be dead."

"Then you should understand," Cayessa said. "You should have left me under that tree."

"Don't be fucking stupid."

"Excellency. Talent. That's all they ever preach at Vintrica. I'm the black sheep. Everyone knows that. I can't even do the simplest of spells. And when I do, I nearly kill someone because I can't control a damn thing. I'm worthless! That's what everyone told me. I used to ignore them by convincing myself that they were wrong. But it's all true, everything they've ever said."

"Cay—."

Her eyes flew up to his, fiery with accusation. "Don't you start either, witcher! You've proven that to me too!" She left it at that, but Kozin knew exactly what she was talking about. She had seen him with Brielle.

But what she didn't know was how hard it was for him to shake the feeling of that kiss from his mind too. He wouldn't even let himself admit it. Maybe that was why he had been so eager to fill his mind with the touch and smell of another woman. But it had only all been a brief distraction.

Fuck, now he _really_ wanted his pipe. Kozin's hand drifted towards where it was stashed on his belt. "You nearly killed someone?"

"A nobleman visiting Vintrica," Cayessa told him. "He said the same thing everyone else had. I just… couldn't take it anymore." The girl's hand clenched in the riverbank, digging into the mud. "I caused a lot of trouble for the school. Now, and ever since I stepped through its doors." Her voice was declining to a whisper. Kozin could see her arms trembling with effort, training to hold her up. He needed to get her back to Vintrica.

Reaching down, the witcher finally took out the wooden trinket. It was time to call Theila. He had clasped the two ends of the cylinder between his fingers when suddenly he heard Cayessa cry out, "No!"

With an alarming burst of strength, her hand swept through the air and knocked into his. The tiny trinket slipped from between the witcher's fingers. As it sailed through the air, Kozin's hand shot for it. Cruelly, it brushed against his fingertips before gravity snatched it out of reach and pulled it into the burbling depths of the river. In disbelief and desperation, Kozin sank his hands into the water. He grasped at cold empty water for a few times before he finally accepted defeat. Glowing amber eyes turned towards the one responsible, burning with anger.

"You really can't be that stupid," he snarled.

Though her face was pale and hollow, Cayessa seemed to stare back with just as much fire in her eyes. "You c-can't take me to Theila!" she cried. "I… I'd rather you kill me!" Realization suddenly crossed her face. "That's… that's it."

"You're delusional."

"No, I mean it!" Cayessa implored. "You've got your swords. You can just… And then tell them you never found me."

"You can't possibly expect me to do that in good conscious."

"Why not? It's what I want!"

 _"What you want?_ Like fucking shite, that's what you want. You're a kid! A babe! You know _fuck all_ about what you want!" His frustration, boiling like a kettle above the hearth, was starting to surface into his words. He was trapped out here with this sickly girl, with Vintrica thousands of miles away and no way to contact Theila. "You run out here, sticking dimeridium into yourself like you think it's going to redeem what you've done! Clot-brained as you are, you probably thought it was fucking romantic, didn't you? 'Oh, they'll be so upset. They'll regret how they treated me. I'll be missed.' Is that what you thought, you radge little wench? 'This'll get that witcher to love me. He'll never look at another woman the same again.' I'll tell you what would've happened—no one would've come for you! You'd lie there, bloating into a bag of flesh, until the scavengers finally became hungry enough to pick you apart! Who'll miss you? The worms that didn't get to you fast enough, that's who! _Fuck!"_

When the air finally became free of his roaring voice, and when he finally stopped seeing red, Kozin saw what he had done. The girl in front of him was sobbing so hard she was shaking like a leaf. Taking a deep breath, the witcher cleared his raging head. Against his better judgment, he reached for her.

Cayessa instantly retracted from him as though his touch was deadly. "N-no!" she stammered, gasping for air. "You s-s-stay away fr-rom me, you hor-horrible, stinking _brute!"_

"Lass, I—."

"I hate you!" Her scream was shrilly. "I hate you more than anything! More than myself! I hope you die alone, facedown in a bog! I hope no one—!" Her voice cut off when she began retching again. But there was nothing left except for acrid bile that stung Kozin's nose.

Just like before, he held her hair back. The girl heaved until the nausea left her, and with it, her strength. Had Kozin not been there to hold her up, she would have fallen right onto the riverbank. He rolled her over until she faced up. Tears rolled along the crevasses of her nose. With his thumb, Kozin wiped them off. He unhooked the waterskin from his belt, uncapped it, and gently tilted the opening to her mouth. Slowly, he trickled the water into her mouth, allowing the barely conscious girl to drink at her own pace.

Kozin sighed as he pressed his thumb over the cap, sealing the waterskin. He figured his best course of action was to get to Blaviken. The only problem was that he couldn't travel with Cayessa like this. He had no horse, no bedroll, and barely enough rations to get through a single day for one mouth, let alone two. Wearily, the witcher lifted his eyes as thunder rumbled towards them like an approaching monster.

* * *

Nausea thumped deeply in her head and in her throat when she awoke. Pain encased her, gripping her arm, chest, and stomach. As Cayessa rose to consciousness, it took her nearly a minute to finally be able to make out where she was.

The ceiling looked as though it were made of stone, and it was close. But the stone, oddly enough, looked nothing like the ivory material that constituted Vintrica's interior. It was course and unrefined—like a cave. And that sound… what was it? Constant and rhythmic, like… like rain. No, it _was_ rain.

And her face was so numb, so cold. The rest of her felt fine because something heavy was covering her. A blanket? It smelled familiar—like leather and… some kind of spice.

Cayessa turned her head, ignoring the pain that shot up her neck. Next to her laid someone. The witcher. His arms were crossed and his eyes were closed. His breathing came through steady and slow. Something about him looked different.

He wasn't wearing his cloak. It was currently draped over her. Cayessa realized they were both in a small, rocky alcove. She was tucked against the inner recess of the shelf, and the witcher lay between her and the outside. His body acted as a shield, keeping the rain out. Cayessa wondered how much of it was getting in. Not too much, she hoped.

But on the other hand, she was parched. Her tongue felt dry and it hurt to swallow. She tried lifting the cloak away, but its weight felt magnified to her weak arms. The soft crinkle of the cloak awoke the witcher. His eyes quickly opened and he sat up as much as the alcove would allow. Without saying a word, the witcher lifted the back of her head with a hand. He raised something to her mouth, and Cayessa felt the cool touch of water on her lips.

Even when he put the waterskin away, he still had her cradled against him. Through her muddled head, Cayessa wondered if this was what it felt like to be loved.

* * *

 _I know that I'm helpless, careless, and I'm selfish_

 _But you love me anyway_

 _I run from all my feelings, never say the right thing_

 _But you love me anyway_

 _Scared to show the real side, caught up in my own pride_

 _But you love me anyway_

 _I might never show it, but I know that I'm broken_

 _And you love me anyway_

"Love Me Anyway"—Parachute


	43. Chapter 43 - Healed

Gentle drizzle pecked at the drenched earth. Another puff of smoke drifted up into the cool, damp air. The witcher watched the quiet world just beyond the alcove. Rain had driven all the critters and insects into hiding. Now, as the morning sun painted the breaking clouds a soft red, the landscape settled into a temporary purgatory of silence. Fat droplets leaked lazily from the leaves. Thin streams fell from the rock shelf above him, forming a fine curtain over the alcove's entrance. Through the grass, tree roots gorged with rainwater peeked. Even above the perique, Kozin caught the earthy scent of soaked dirty and wet grass.

His eyes followed a clear bead of water as it slide lethargically down a slanted blade of grass. He heard her shift behind him. The ill girl had slept fitfully the entire night, falling in and out of sleep. Soft groans had often escaped her lips, markers of the pain that coursed through her body. Kozin had, at one point, peeled back the cloak to check on her arm. The hole where the needle had gone through was reduced to a tiny, red speck. However, that entire area had become swollen and adopted a concerning, fiery red hue.

Kozin had delicately touched the inflamed flesh, feeling a hard mound the size of a goat's eye underneath. The dimeridium suspension hadn't completely been broken down and metabolized yet. At his touch, Cayessa had cried out.

Feeling the dimeridium made the witcher nervous. Though he knew how to dress his own wounds, he was by no means a practitioner of medicine. Kozin wasn't sure whether to let the dimeridium break down or cut it out now before it could spread to the rest of her body. However, the thought of slicing the girl's arm open in the middle of the backwoods, with nothing but a few herbs and witcher potions, was an idea that reeked of disaster.

Kozin sighed heavily, his breath saturated with smoke. The best option was to wait for Theila. Eventually, after hearing nothing from him in a while, the sorceress was bound to come looking for him.

Tiny sniffles caught the witcher's sharp ear. Cayessa was on her side, her back turned to him. Her muffled voice told Kozin she had wrapped the cloak over her mouth to hide the sounds, but he heard the all the same. Kozin scooted away from the edge of the alcove—only a foot. He wouldn't allow himself to get too close to her.

"Why're you crying, lass?" he asked plainly.

"My arm hurts."

Kozin pushed the pipe into his mouth. "Aye, injecting dimeridium will do that," he mumbled through clenched teeth. He unsheathed the bone dagger, set it closer to Cayessa, and thought for a moment. Then, he took the dagger back. Still hands free, Kozin pulled a drag from his pipe and blew it out immediately.

He took the pipe from his teeth and said, "Going out to forage for a bit of scran. Don't go anywhere." It was doubtful the girl had the strength to even drag herself anyway. "If you hear anything, don't make a peep because it won't be me, you hear?" Cayessa didn't answer. "Are you listening to me?"

"Don't leave me."

"Fuck, lass, I'll only be out for a bit," Kozin replied. He crawled out from the alcove and trotted over to a nearest tree. The lowest branches were ripped off, showering the witcher in scattered droplets. When a good handful had been gathered, Kozin hauled them up onto his shoulder and returned to the alcove. One by one, he draped them over the opening until it was adequately covered. Then he left.

The idea of finding dry wood after last night's thunderstorm was laughable. It didn't take long for Kozin to realize that trying to do so was a wasted effort. He thought about the tree that he had found Cayessa under—how some of its boughs had curved downward under the weight of fruit. The witcher turned on his heel and returned to the slope.

The growing daylight fell on the tree and its small, bright orange fruits. The rain had washed Cayessa's blood from the grass, but the hypodermic needle remained half buried in the mud. Kozin stepped over it as he came up to the tree. He reached up to pull a branch towards him, keeping his head down as the rustling leaves shed water on him.

Only a few apricots were within his reach, but they were enough. With a pouch sagging against his thigh, Kozin went back to the alcove. He moved the branches aside and crouched to see that Cayessa had sat up.

"I can't move my arm," she said, looking down at her limp appendage.

"What did you expect, lass? You stuck a vial of stuff that doesn't belong in there. Right into the muscle, I'd wager. You think your arm is going to keep working after that? And it's _dimeridium_. Tell you the truth, your future as a sorceress looks grim."

His words had visibly upset her. Kozin could see Cayessa's eyes becoming glassy again and suppressed a sigh. The girl has gone through a lot, even though it was all self-inflicted. And with the poison in her body, she was obviously not in the right state of mind. If everything he said to her was going to bring her to tears, today was going to be very long.

"Peckish, lass?" Kozin asked, setting the filled pouch next to her. "Don't know how well you'll be able to keep your food down. Eat slow, and tell me if you're not feeling well."

Cayessa turned away from the pouch. "I don't want it," she said stubbornly. Kozin felt an angry knot twist in his chest. He finally crossed the space between them. Gripping her by the shoulder, he turned her until their faces were inches apart—the first time since their kiss. But this time, the witcher's eyes seethed.

"Don't you give me this bullshite," he snarled. "I've been trying to help you, and you've been nothing but a pain in my arse. So I suggest you straighten yourself up, you hear me?"

"You're horrible," Cayessa replied quietly.

"Aye, I'm horrible. But I can get a lot worse, so pipe the fuck down and eat."

* * *

The sun had just crossed the midpoint in the sky when Cayessa asked to be taken down to the river so she could take a bath. Kozin had given her a look, but the girl insisted she needed one. "Not everyone wants to stink, witcher!" she huffed. It was amazing how she managed to keep up her attitude even despite getting poisoned and being intimidated by the witcher. She was bold, and if she'd had a good head between those shoulders, she could have really been something.

Kozin decided there was no harm in bringing her back to the river. It was closer to the portal location, anyway. He still had his hopes that Theila would come.

He carried her from the alcove. The journey was short, so he had her cradled against his chest. Cayessa nestled her head against his neck. Her hand drifted up to his chin and played with his beard. She was often like this—alternating between despising him and being flirtatious. Kozin always enjoyed the feeling of a woman caressing his beard, but he quickly reminded himself whom the hand belonged to. He jolted her abruptly, making sure her hurt arm bumped into his chest. Cayessa yipped with pain and quickly withdrew her hand to grip her sore arm.

"Watch it!" she hissed.

"Keep your hands to yourself."

They came to the shore of the burbling river. Kozin set Cayessa down and was walking away when the girl cried out, "Wait!" Kozin stopped and looked at her. "I can't undress with one hand!"

"Figure something out." He turned away.

"Kozin, please!" she pleaded, a genuine note of uncertainty in her voice. The witcher froze. This was the first time she had ever called him by his name. "I won't try anything, promise. I really need your help."

"That's not the tune you've been singing," Kozin remarked, though her words got him to turn back to her. She sat on the bank with her knees drawn up. Kozin didn't like her like that—she looked utterly innocent.

"Wouldn't work anyway." Her voice was undeniably sad. Cayessa looked away and edged towards the water. "My glamor's fading away. Not that I was ever as pretty as Mistress Brielle." Her voice was quiet, uttered under her breath for herself only. But Kozin heard her.

With her good arm, she was tugging at one of her dress's straps when the witcher crouched next to her. "Lift this arm," he told her. Kozin lifted her other arm and pulled the dress up over her head. He had tried bracing himself for what he knew he was going to be faced with, but he still inhaled a little too sharply.

She was too young, Kozin tried telling himself. Too young. But her body had long since matured into that of a woman's. Before he could stop himself, his eyes slid down her form. The primal part of his brain greedily devoured every detail he could catch. Kozin quickly reined himself in, clearing his throat loudly and sharply. He didn't dare touch her knickers. She could remove that on her own.

Kozin quickly rose to his feet and hurried away to lean on a nearby tree. He made sure to keep his back towards her. "Go on, lass," he said, putting artificial calmness in his voice. "Make it quick." He gripped his jaw and scratched his beard, trying to distract himself from the sound of her completely undressing and slipping into the river.

"It's cold!" he heard her say.

Kozin didn't reply, still running his fingers roughly along his jawline. He couldn't help but hear the tinkling of water and tried not to think about it trickling over the girl's bare skin. The pipe was suddenly in his hand, though the witcher did nothing but worry it between his fingers.

"Kozin." Reflexively, the witcher turned his head but quickly caught himself. Damn, that was close.

"What?"

"Did Theila ever say anything to you? About me?"

The witcher paused. "Aye, she did."

"What did she say?"

"Quit dallying and around finish your bath."

"This is important, Kozin. I need to know."

"I'll tell you once you're out of the river."

"Do you have any soap?"

Kozin's hand patted his belt, and then he remembered. "No, it's with my horse." And that horse was still at the Bear keep. Home never felt quite so far away until now.

"None at all?" Cayessa asked. "Not even some kind of perfume or scented oil?"

"Lass, I'm a witcher, not a spa attendant. Besides, why do you need all of that? Just take a rinse and get out."

"But I—."

"You're not going to smell. Couldn't get rid of that perfume of yours even if you scrubbed your skin clean off. You smell like an obnoxious bakery."

"Who doesn't like the smell of vanilla?" Cayessa argued.

"Me."

Cayessa snorted angrily. "It's because you're an unrefined brute," she snapped. "You probably think a cow's fart smells good."

"Dirty Skelliger that I am," Kozin finished sarcastically.

"Exactly!"

"You're a real piece of work, kitten."

"Kitten?" Cayessa repeated.

"Aye, kitten. I've seen enough of those little tykes to know you're exactly like one. Constantly mewling for attention and thinking their claws are bigger than they actually are."

Cayessa huffed. "How rude! I… I thought you were trying to be cute!"

Kozin crossed his arms, gripping his pipe in a fist. "Let's set some things straight," he said firmly. "You're 17. You want to guess how old I am?"

"How am I supposed to know? You're a witcher!"

"Exactly. I could be twice your age. In fact, I'm even older than that."

"So? I've heard of 15 year old girls becoming brides!"

"You wouldn't want to be in their shoes, lass. It's not romantic. Far from that, actually. Consider yourself lucky you're not a lass chained in the bonds of aristocracy. Back to my point—you're a child, and I don't get intimate with bairns."

"I'm not a child! We kissed!"

"I've kissed a lot of lasses. What's one more? Didn't mean a thing, what we did." If Undevar were there, he would've heard the lie. But here, his audience only consisted of the trees and the girl whose heart he'd broken.

"Not a thing?" Cayessa whispered. Kozin pressed his lips together tightly. He gripped his pipe, his knuckles white. "But you were my first kiss. It meant everything to me."

"Get out of the water. You've soaked long enough."

He heard Cayessa struggle to pull herself back onto the bank, but didn't turn around. After a moment, he asked. "You got your dress back on?"

"I'm drying," she said. They settled into a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence. Then, Kozin's ears picked up the ruffling as Cayessa redressed herself. When the rustling stopped, he turned around. The girl was sitting at the bank, her back to him as she faced the river. Kozin stood from the tree and walked over to her. He settled down on the bank next to her. Cayessa's arms draped down into her lap, and her head was bowed as she looked down into the water. Kozin noticed that her hair was darker. Now that the glamor had been washed away, Cayessa's locks reverted to its natural, warmer shade of gold.

Kozin looked down at his pipe. "Let me tell you something, Cayessa," he said. "First kisses don't mean a thing. Nor your second, nor your third. You're young—that's what Theila told me about you. Like I said before, you know fuck all about what you want. It takes years and experience to start understanding. You're not going to find yourself sitting around in Vintrica and waiting for all good things to come to you. You're going to find it out in the world, when you go to the kind of places that make you trip and scrape your knees. Then you'll know what you want. And let me tell the truth, lass—more than likely it won't be me." How much pain those last words pierced through him was a secret he'd take to the grave.

"Can you just… _go away?"_ Cayessa suddenly demanded. "I want to be alone right now."

"No," Kozin replied bluntly.

"Why not?"

"I feel like sitting here on this riverbank with you."

"Bullshit. I know you don't want to be anywhere near me."

"Cayessa, just because I'm not in love with you, doesn't mean I don't care about you."

The girl shrugged. "I think you're lying," she admitted, "just to, I don't know, make me more complacent. Nobody cares about me. Not the other girls or the mistresses. Not even my own." Her voice grew snappish. "She's always telling me that I'm doing something wrong. Everything's wrong. Nothing's ever right. She's trying to make me like her, but I'm not her." Cayessa leaned her head on a hand. "Well, she does care… or maybe she's just pretending too. That's what I'm worried about. I think people just tolerate me."

"Lass, you'll dig yourself into a deeper hole if you keep thinking like that," Kozin said. "I'm a witcher. I know what it's like to be tolerated."

"What's it like being a witcher?"

"Tough," Kozin answered. "I don't get good reception from people, so I've stopped bothering. People are all smiles when they want something, but otherwise they make you feel like a stray dog that's wandered to some place where it isn't welcomed. You go out risking your life for people who wouldn't even blink twice at the news of your death."

"That's awful."

"Frankly, I've gotten used to it, lass. It don't bother me. The toughest part about being a witcher is facing death. Not my own." The witcher sighed as his mind returned to an unsavory memory. "Someone once spelled it out for me—I'm afraid of being left behind."

His words gave way to silence. Then, Kozin felt Cayessa lean against his arm. This time he knew she wasn't trying to come on to him. He didn't try to shake her off. The river bubbled its tireless tune, skipping off the rocky banks in tiny waves. As he watched the glimmering water, a stealthy grin twitched at the corner of Kozin's lips as a sudden thought came to him. If Cayessa hadn't slapped the trinket out of his hands, if they had gone to Vintrica right when he'd found her, they never would've had this talk—this strange little heart-to-heart where Kozin finally got a glimpse into this moody, overreacting girl.

"How's your arm?"

"Hurts."

"Still limp?"

"Yes." Cayessa shifted against him. "Are they going to kick me out of Vintrica?"

"Why would they?"

"I can't be a sorceress anymore." She sat up and turned towards him. "This morning, when you left, I tried doing some spells—the simple ones I already knew. I can't perform any kind of magic anymore."

"It was dimeridium," Kozin said.

"I know…"

"Theila will figure something out."

Cayessa turned back to the river. "Can you go away?"

"Lass, I already said—."

"I need to pee," the girl continued.

That made Kozin pause. "Oh." He set a hand onto the ground and pushed himself onto his feet. "I'll be somewhere over there," he said, nodding towards the thicker part of the backwoods. "Call if you need me. Not too loudly. I'll still be able to hear." He parted quickly from the river, his feet moving lightly over the springy ground. He'd already had one close call with Cayessa lifting up her dress.

As the sounds of the river faded, Kozin slowed. Once again, he was surrounded by the still forest and the lingering scent of rain. The witcher stopped and looked up at the clear sky. Strange how Theila hadn't come yet. But at the same time, she didn't know Kozin had lost the trinket. She probably figured he had no reason to call her.

And speaking of her… Kozin wondered if she was safe on her end. He knew the sorceress could look after herself, but he still couldn't help but worry.

Then, above the overpowering smell of wet earth, Kozin caught the scent of something alarming. His eyes shot down to a patch of mud in front of him, and he immediately crouched down to stick his hand into the sludge. When it came back up, mud dripped slowly from his clenched fist. There was something that stuck out from between his fingers—fringe clumped together into thick tufts with a stiff spine in the middle. A feather. A large one, nearly the length of Kozin's forearm. Kozin brought it to his face. He smelled the earthy mud and the undeniable scent of a griffin.

"Fuck," Kozin hissed. Griffins used to only roam mountains, but human settlement into their territory had herded the winged monsters out of their preferred habitat. The feather looked fresh. It had likely been shed shortly before last night's storm. And now that the clouds had passed, the beast was likely to be out and about again.

Dropping the feather, Kozin spun and headed straight back to the river. And, of course, the riverbank was empty. Scanning the area, he found a silver lining—Cayessa had left a nice set of tracks for him to trail. They led downriver, following the water's flow. Every now and then, it appeared Cayessa would stop and turn towards the river as though she were looking for something.

Kozin stared down the length of the riverbank. The tracks went on. Furious, the witcher cursed himself for letting Cayessa out of his sight so easily. She was bound to try and run off again! But the girl had started getting to his head, and he'd needed a breath of fresh air that wasn't tinted with vanilla.

He'd followed the prints and the river for half a mile, and still no sign of the girl. It was unbelievable how she'd managed to cover so much ground in the span of five or so minutes. The witcher was starting to grow desperate. The feather had told him the backwoods were not as safe as he'd previously imagined.

Then, as though his fears were brought to life by the mere thought, Kozin felt his medallion thump against his chest. A hand flew up to grip the bear head, feeling the confirming rattle in his fingers. Movement in the sky drew his eye. A speck amongst the blue grew rapidly into the form of a flying beast. Its feathered wings came into view quickly as it approached. Kozin watched the griffin steadily, reaching back to pull his silver weapon from its sheath.

But the witcher wasn't the griffin's target, and Kozin didn't realize that until it was too late. The beast's wings folded in and it suddenly dived before it reached him, focusing on something several yards away. Kozin heard the heavy thud as its taloned paws hit the ground.

He heard a scream. Cayessa. Her voice was quickly drowned out by the griffin's piercing shriek. The witcher ran. He could only hope his feet carried him swiftly enough. If he was too late, he didn't know if he would be able to forgive himself.

Kozin saw the griffin's tail as he approached, swinging wildly while the other end of the beast was fixated on the girl it cornered. The stark, coppery smell of blood told Kozin that the griffin had already lashed at her once.

He bellowed out, drawing the beast's attention. It swung its head around to glare at the witcher. Parting its gnarled, black beak, it gave another shrill howl. At that moment, Kozin flew at it with his sword.

Several things happened at once. First, Kozin heard what sounded like a sharp crack of thunder—only close. Next, the griffin shot at him at an alarming speed. A speed that didn't seem right for a griffin to be able to move at. In that split second, Kozin noticed that the griffin's paws had left the ground, though its wings were still furled at its sides. Then its body struck him in a tackle that sent the both of them tumbling across the wet riverbank.

The impact forced the silver sword from Kozin's hands. He struggled to sit up and go after it, but was too winded to move. All he could do was fight for breath and listen to the heavy splash his weapon made as it fell into the river. Then he was on his feet, wearily pulling the steel broadsword into his hand. The griffin had also recovered. Slowly, it began circling him.

Kozin didn't wait for it to find its opportune moment. Stepping towards its rear, he delivered a quick slash that scored a deep cut across its flank. The griffin yowled. Frenzied by pain, it kicked at him with its rear leg. Still coming out of his slash, Kozin didn't have the time to avoid the claws. The curved, ebony talons sliced clean through the leather and grated horribly against the chainmail.

With his free hand, Kozin grabbed the griffin's leg around the ankle and yanked, hoping to pull the beast off its feet. It stumbled, but sidestepped quickly enough to keep its footing. It yowled again and twisted around to snap its beak at the witcher's arm. Kozin released its ankle and strafed out of the range of its beak.

Now free, the griffin spread its wings and quickly retreated into the air. But it didn't seem quite ready to give up. Kozin's eyes followed the monsters as it circle the air above his head. He suddenly remembered the girl standing vulnerable on the bank. He shouted to draw her attention and waved an arm towards the trees. "Get away from the water!" he barked. "Under the canopy!"

"But—," came the stubborn response. Out of the edge of his vision, Kozin saw the griffin dive. He thrust a hand forward, throwing Aard above Cayessa's head. It struck the griffin and threw it off course. Cayessa ducked her head and shrieked. She obviously didn't need more motivation to heed the witcher's orders and scurried towards the backwoods.

The griffin was up on its feet again, giving a stark shake of its head to reorient itself. Its dark mane ruffled around its neck. Spiny wings unfurled again, but they moved slowly this time as a ring of purple runes surrounded the beast. With the griffin trapped by Yrden, Kozin was given enough time to cross the distance between them and brought the steel broadsword down. The blade sank into the griffin's shoulder with the intent of slicing the wing off, but it could not bite through the monster's flesh as easily as its silver brother.

Though this blade didn't sear as badly, the pain was enough to enrage the beast. Faster than lightning, the griffin swiveled its head and clamped its beak over the sword. With a powerful wrench, it ripped the sword from its shoulder. Kozin let the grip of the sword be torn from his hands to avoid being tugged closer towards the monster. Holding the sword in its jaws like a dog with a stick, the griffin threw its head to the side and launched the weapon away. It flipped twice in the air before sticking into the base of a tree.

Now without either of his swords, Kozin backed away from the griffin as it turned to face him again. It came at him, and he threw Igni to push it back. Just as Kozin pulled the crossbow into his hands, the griffin had returned to the air. The witcher raised the crossbow and tracked the monster's path. Then he jerked the pointer ahead and fired.

Kozin hated a clever beast, and this one was too much so for his liking. Flaring its wings out, the griffin brought its flight to an abrupt halt and let the bolt cut through the air in front of it. Then, with a powerful stroke, it continued to soar above the witcher's head. But the griffin wasn't the only one able to learn.

He tracked the beast again, and then let another crossbow bolt fly. As expected, the griffin performed the save maneuver. But this time, Kozin quickly lowered his crossbow to deliver a blast of Aard. The griffin was unable to get enough momentum to skirt out of the Sign's range. The force clipped one of its wings and sent it spiraling back to the ground. The ground shook when it landed. A bolt dug into its side, but it clearly had no effect other than pissing it off. Kozin realized that the crossbow wouldn't be able to kill a beast of this size. His eyes shot towards the steel sword, several running paces away, and then back at the enraged griffin. He too was overly frustrated. If only _, if only_ , a certain girl hadn't tried interfering and made him lose his silver blade! Who knows how far the damned river had carried it at this point!

The griffin seemed to understand that the witcher had been declawed and gave a rattling hiss. Kozin scowled and glanced back at the steel sword. Suddenly, he cast another Yrden trap around the griffin and made a break for the blade. He heard the thudding of the monster's paws as it came after him, but Kozin didn't anticipate how quickly it would break free from the Yrden and catch up to him. As if played a cruel joke by fate, the sword seemed to be barely beyond the reach of his fingertips when he felt the griffin snag him by the empty sheath on his back. It yanked him away. Kozin twisted, struggling to break out of the monster's grip before it had the chance to pull him into the range of its deadly back claws. As Kozin strained, he reached around and smashed the side of his fist into the griffin's neck. It released him, but a wing came up to strike him in the face like a reciprocating punch. Carried by the wing's momentum, Kozin stumbled into the griffin. It seemed the beast wasn't ready for the full weight of the Bear witcher to fall over it, because it buckled under him.

Kozin felt the griffin struggle underneath him. He knew he only had a few seconds—the monster was strong enough to eventually throw him off. Flipping over onto his stomach, he tangled one hand into the griffin's mane, and another wrapped in a vice-like grip over the beast's beak. He raised himself enough to dig a knee into its side, pinning the flapping wing. The griffin's back legs scrabbled against the riverbank, throwing loosened stones into the water. It bucked once. Kozin was jolted into the air, but he quickly held the beast back down again.

"Don't think that without my swords," he growled, "you're any less safe!" The beak fought against his clenched hand. Before it could break free, Kozin lifted the griffin's head and slammed it down into the rocky bank. The struggling of its rear legs intensified. Kozin felt his body get pushed off, but maintained his grip on its mane and beak. Before the griffin could rise, he brought its head back down onto the rocks with another grisly thud.

The third time Kozin smashed the head down, he heard a defined crack. The struggling weakened. But Kozin didn't stop. Again and again, he brought the griffin's skull down, bringing its end in a primitive and primal manner like a monkey cracking open a melon.

The spaces between the stones on the wet bank grew crimson. The deep color seeped out from underneath the griffin's head, joining the river in swirling red tendrils. Panting heavily through his mouth, the witcher fell away from the dead griffin. His arms shook from the grapple and it took him a while to push himself back onto his feet.

Kozin walked heavy-footed over to the steel sword and pulled it out of the ground. His eyes drifted over to the flowing river, all traces of the sword's twin gone. Exhaling heavily, the witcher turned to see a dark golden-haired head peeking out him from behind a tree.

"That was… that was awful!" Cayessa said quietly.

Kozin grunted. "It was either it or me, lass."

"I know, I just…" The girl's eyes were wide. "I've never seen anything die before. A-aside from a cockroach or a f-fly…"

The witcher grunted again, his eyes lowering to the red in Cayessa's light-colored dress. The griffin had gotten her right beneath the collarbone in a cut that ran all the way to the side of her arm. "Sit down, lass," he said, "and put your hand down."

"I'm fine," Cayessa insisted, backing away.

Kozin caught her by the other arm. "You're not fine," he said. "Soon as the adrenaline wears off, you'll be as limp as that griffin over there. And you should count yourself lucky that you're heart's still the one beating." He managed to get Cayessa to sit down and pulled apart the rip in her dress to inspect the cut. She was already weak, and he was afraid what the blood loss would do to her. The first thing he needed to do was disinfect the wound.

There was a small pouch on his belt with herbs that had antibacterial properties. Kozin grabbed a large pinch and popped it into his mouth. The leaves tasted bitter. When he had ground them to a satisfactory consistency, he dropped the wad out onto his mouth. Cayessa drew back when he reached for her with the pulpy leaves. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Griffins don't got clean claws," he answered.

"You put that in your _mouth!"_

"It's a disinfectant," Kozin said impatiently.

"But it has your spit in it!"

"Do you want my spit, or do you want an infected, pus-filled cut?" Kozin snapped. Cayessa finally gave in and let the witcher spread the pulp over her wound. She shuddered.

"Ugh, it's _warm,"_ she said repulsively. Kozin ignored her remark. When the cut was covered, he pulled out the roll of bandages Theila had placed into his bag before he had left Vintrica. When he turned back to Cayessa, he hestitated as he realized what was coming next.

"Lift your dress," he said slowly, gripping the bandage roll tight. "I need to wrap the wound up." Cayessa looked at him wordlessly. Kozin registered what her gaze meant. With one arm limp from dimeridium, and the other slashed by the griffin, she couldn't lift either high enough to get the dress out of the way. The witcher's heart skipped a beat.

"Can I…?" Cayessa nodded. "Over your head?" She nodded again.

When the dress was removed, Kozin once again found himself confronted by a tantalizing sight. An intrusive thought entered his mind, begging him to remove his leather glove and run his bare hand along her pale skin. Quickly, the witcher looked down and unrolled the bandage with a sharp yank. He began wrapped it across her shoulders, coming around to adequately cover the wound. He looped it once under her arm and, as he did, his hand brushed against her breast.

Kozin flinched. The roll dropped from his hand. _Unbelievable_ , he thought. He told himself that earlier, he had killed a griffin with his bare hands. But now, this girl in front of him was making him lose his shit.

He snatched the roll from the grass and finished wrapping Cayessa's wound up. After securing the bandages with a knot, he pulled the dress back over her and sat back against the tree. For some reason, Kozin found himself more out of breath than he had been after killing the griffin.

When his heart finally settled back into a somewhat regular rhythm, Kozin asked, "What the hell were you thinking trying to run off like that?"

"I wasn't trying to run!" Cayessa argued.

"No? Getting me to leave and slipping off? I suppose you were just looking for the perfect spot to piss, then?"

"I was… looking for the bibelot."

"The what?"

"That thing you had. The little wooden charm you were going to call Theila with." Kozin realized she was referring to the wooden trinket she had slapped into the water.

With a scoff, he said, "Thing's gone, lass. The river had a whole night to carry it away." Kozin's heart dropped when he realized the same fate would befall his beloved silver sword. He was about to voice his frustration at her interference during the fight when suddenly a thought came to him.

"That push," he recalled, "was from you, wasn't it? That was a spell. How were you able to do that? You've still got the dimeridium in you."

Cayessa paused, as if she too had just realized. "I don't know," she admitted. "I was just scared and it happened."

"Sorcerers get inhibited by dimeridium by just being around it," Kozin pushed. "You've got it in your damn blood."

"I told you, I don't know!" Cayessa said. "I just… just can't do anything right."

"That's for damn sure." He saw the girl's eyes glittering with tears again before she lowered them. "Don't you start fucking crying on me again, Cayessa." A tear streaked down her cheek. Kozin breathed deeply and massaged his sore hand. "Tell me, lass. Why are you so piss poor at magic?"

"Stop talking."

"You answer me right now."

"Why would I want to learn magic when every time I try, I mess up and get it wrong?" Cayessa suddenly cried. "And being around other girls who pick it up in a blink just twists the knife! Sometimes I wish I weren't connected to the Chaos. Then I could live a normal life." Kozin stopped massaging his hand and placed his pipe between his lips. He reached down into his tobacco pouch.

"Anything you don't mind doing?" he wondered.

"Um…" Cayessa hummed. She sniffed and wiped at her face. "I don't mind alchemy, I guess. I like going up to the school's greenhouse. It's on the roof, so I go there when I visit Pascal."

"Alchemy?" He didn't expect an answer like that from her.

"I know all the greenhouse plants and their uses," Cayessa said, a touch of pride in her voice. "But Theila has no patience with alchemy. She's all about elementalism."

The pipe lit up with Igni. "Alchemy's more than just recognizing plants," he said.

"I know," Cayessa said. "But alchemy and the healing arts go hand in hand."

"You want to be a healer?"

"It just seems like a good thing to be."

"Aye. The world would see less death if there were more doctors around." The smoke evaporated before his eyes. "I didn't expect this from you, lass."

"Aside from Pascal, I've never told anyone else."

"Keeping this a secret does more harm than good. You're committing yourself to misery."

"But I'm afraid," Cayessa admitted. "Everything else I've attempted has failed. But this thing, this one thing I actually care about… what if I fail in that too?"

Kozin sat up. "What, and you're too scared to even let yourself try?"

"I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't heal."

"Passion carries you a long way," Kozin said. "And it's fine to expect failure. Embrace it, lass, because it's not the end of the world."

Cayessa was quiet as she digested his words. Then, very quietly, she said, "I'm sorry for calling you a brute. You're not horrible… or stinking."

"Nay, you're quite right."

"But I like the way you smell." Cayessa suddenly let out an embarrassed giggle. The girl from Vintrica seemed to return, and for once Kozin was glad to see her. Then he quickly caught himself. He couldn't possibly be… _falling_ for her? Again, he reminded himself that she was a child. And she was much too innocent to have her heart tugged out and dragged along by a witcher. Grimly, Kozin found himself longing to get away so he wouldn't be plagued by these thoughts. He figured he'd need to spend a few nights at a brothel to shake these feelings out of him.

A distant roar stole the witcher's attention. But it was a familiar roar—a portal. Kozin realized that Theila had finally come looking for them. The witcher emptied the ash from his pipe and stood. He cast a glance at Cayessa and saw the sad look on her face.

"Where will you go after this?" she asked. As Kozin walked away without answering, she called out, "Wait, Kozin! Please! I love you!"

"Remember what I said, Cay," Kozin responded without looking back. "About finding yourself. Finding what you want." He left her under the tree and followed the sound of the portal. The roar faded, and he heard the sounds of someone approaching.

Tall vegetation parted, pushed aside by an invisible force, and the sorceress stepped through. Relief immediately washed over her face at the sight of him. "I wanted to stay out of your hair, but I could only wait so long," she said, hurrying over to him. Theila placed a hand on his arm, and the relief dropped from her face as she said, "I couldn't find her, Kozin. Did you…?"

"She's okay," Kozin told her. "Injured, though. We ran into a griffin. And she's got half a vial of dimeridium in her. The sorceresses can take it out, right?"

"Lead me to her," Theila ordered. "We can talk on the way." As they traveled through the backwoods, she continued, "Removing dimeridium suspension in the body is difficult, Kozin. More difficult than you realize. And half a vial is… even just a drop of it in the body would eliminate all chances of ever performing magic."

"She can still cast," Kozin said. "I've seen it."

"That's not possible."

"I've seen it," Kozin repeated.

"Then…" Theila hesitated. "Well… the only other possible explanation is… she's a Source." Even the sorceress seemed startled at her own words.

"A what?"

"Someone who with natural propensity towards magic—a very powerful caster. Your average, run-of-the-mill mage undergoes extensive training to master the use of Chaos. Sources are gifted with the connection naturally, but they usually have incredibly difficulty controlling their power." Theila stopped talking to consider for a second, and then said, "It makes sense now, actually."

"You mean why Cayessa had so much trouble?"

"Yes, and how the hearth exploded when she was under stress. Why didn't I see this before?"

"You were too busy thinking that she was just being a difficult student."

"I suppose I did," she admitted. "But it's not like you to defend her."

"I've had to spend roughly 24 hours with her," Kozin said. He suddenly stopped and caught Theila's arm. "I have to be frank with you. You haven't been a good mistress to her."

This time, Theila didn't take his accusation with as much grace. "I've done as much as anyone can to nurture her abilities," she said heatedly. "I've gotten frustrated with her, true, but I've never once given up on her. What's this about, then? Has she finally wooed you into taking her side?"

"You know I wouldn't let that happen," Kozin said. "But I think the both of you could learn something from one another. Take her to the Temple of Melitele."

"The Temple?" Theila repeated.

"Just outside of Ellander," Kozin continued. "Let the priestesses there show her their art. She wants to be a healer, Theila."

"A healer?" Theila's eyebrows knitted together. "She's never mentioned anything about this."

"She's been too afraid to, but I'm not going to let her sit in silence."

"Assuming she can still cast, healing is difficult," Theila said tentatively. "But before she can become a Magus of Restoration, she must master the other basic forms of magic as well."

"Give her something to strive for."

Theila scoffed lightheartedly. "Here I am, getting sound advice from you for once. Very well, Kozin. We'll give this temple a visit, and I'll let her know it was your recommendation." Kozin saw her eyes flicker over to his shoulder. "I meant to ask—why do you only have one sword? Don't tell me you left Cayessa with one."

Kozin's heart suddenly dropped at the memory of his sword. "Lost it," he said, unable to keep the defeat out of his voice. "It fell in the river."

"I see," Theila said. "Was it the silver one?"

"Aye."

"That makes things easier. What would witchers be if sorceresses weren't around? Give me a moment, Kozin." She turned away. Her hands drifted in slow circles as she began chanting in Elder. Kozin watched the air around her hands glitter. Then, from the shimmering space, he saw a familiar form begin to materialize. Slowly, his beloved silver broadsword appeared until it was completely solid. It fell onto the ground, along with a dented silver chalice and a necklace.

"Fuck me!" Kozin breathed. He bent down to snatch his blade up. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes."

"There appears to be more silver in the vicinity than I imagined," Theila remarked, prodding at the chalice with her foot. Kozin crouched down to inspect the necklace. It was beautiful—the chain was made of pale silver, and the charm had a light blue gem tucked into it. The story behind why it ended up in the backwoods must've been a good one, but Kozin was thinking of the amount of perique he could get by selling it off.

"She's just ahead," Kozin said, still rolling the charm between his fingers. "Under a tree. Get her home safe, Theila."

"And you?"

Kozin kept his eyes on the gem, trying not to recall Cayessa's last words to him. "I'm not going with you," he stated firmly. "It's time I get back on the Path. And to do that, I'll need my gear.." He closed his fingers over the necklace and rose.

"I can send you back to the guild," Theila said. "Kozin… thank you."

The witcher didn't reply as he turned away. Theila opened the portal for him. He had nearly just reached its threshold when he stopped. "Theila," he said, looking back. With a flick of his arm, he tossed the necklace over to the sorceress. "Give her that." At Theila's inquisitive look, he said, "So she knows that someone cares."

* * *

 _If I can't find the cure, I'll_

 _I'll fix you with my love_

 _No matter what you know, I'll_

 _I'll fix you with my love_

 _And if you say that you're okay_

 _I'm going to heal you anyway_

"The Cure"—Lady Gaga


	44. Chapter 44 - To Ruin

It was strange how everything was supposed to go back to normal as soon as Kozin stepped through the portal and looked up at the bare, stony face of his homestead. The Bear keep never looked so foreign and familiar at the same time. He wondered if this was how Andryk had felt.

The red-haired witcher's words echoed in his head. "Don't ever fall in love." Well he had done just that—gone out and stuck his head up his own ass.

The masters greeted him upon his return. Kozin noticed that several were missing, including their highest—Undevar was nowhere to be seen. When Kozin asked Roffe about him, the mage peered solemnly at the witcher and answered, "Been quiet, awfully quiet, all day. Not a peep from the grandmaster in the last few days."

"Why?"

"The youngest witchers departed for their first seasons this year. That's it—there's no one left to train."

"No one left…?" Kozin echoed, looking up at the grim, stone keep.

"Aye, the keep hasn't seen a bairn enter its doorway in a while. Not that it has enough to support a new generation, anyway. It's got enough to hold itself up and that's it. Master Brimir and a handful of others have rejoined the Path. The echoes in the hall have grown deeper." The mage tapped Kozin's arm and nodded towards the keep. "Go and visit the grandmaster before you leave, aye? It don't suit him to be this downcast."

The keep was silent when he entered. Roffe was right—the place was nearly dead. So much so, Kozin actually noticed the quietly shuffling housekeepers. They were the only pulse left in the guild.

Undevar wasn't in his study. Further down the hall, the door to his bedroom was closed. Kozin gently rapped his knuckles against it.

"Aye," came the answer. Kozin pushed the door open. He then realized that, for the nearly four decades he'd been alive, he had never been in the grandmaster's room. Kozin found the air laced with a familiar scent.

Undevar sat by his open window. The dim daylight touched his still face, outlining every wrinkle and crevasse. The sill of the window was adorned with a row of potted freesia. Their blooms gently tinted the air, echoing a woman's perfume.

"Welcome home, laddie," Undevar greeted in a weighted voice. The grandmaster lifted himself from the chair, but it seemed to Kozin as though he were fighting against the weight of the entire world as he stood. His thick limbs moved slowly, strenuously. The way Undevar carried himself reminded the black-haired witcher of a heavy, silver-furred creature that had once dwelled in his dreams. "How are your eyes? I see Theila's done a fine job restoring them."

"Aye," Kozin replied as Undevar clapped him over the shoulder. "Took a while, but I'm finally myself again."

"How did you like Vintrica? Beautiful place, isn't it?"

Kozin nodded, though his mind could only recall her beauty instead. Undevar led him by the shoulder into the hall, where they strolled slowly as they talked.

"And that dragon… what was his name again?"

"Pascal."

"Ah, yes. He's still there?"

"It's a palace full of sorceresses. What reason would he have to leave?"

Undevar chuckled. "It's any lad's dream, isn't it? Though I recall that Pascal mostly kept to himself—he's a quiet beast. He's done his fair share of watching the world. I imagine the things he's got in his head are invaluable. The silent observer learns much. It's such a shame he's so damn quiet, though."

The grandmaster seemed a bit strange. He was acting too cheerful, trying to cover up the shadow inside of him. But Kozin wouldn't play along. If Bear was dying, he wanted to hear it from the grandmaster himself.

"Grandmaster," he began slowly, "the masters are gone."

"Aye, they are," Undevar replied quietly. "There's nothing left for them here. No more witchers to train." As if to emphasize his words, the window they passed by offered a view of the main courtyard—completely empty. "The forges are cold. The docks are empty. It feels like this guild has died and I'm still living in its corpse."

"Don't say that."

The grandmaster heaved a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him. "Forgive me, laddie. I'm just getting old. When you've lived as long as I have, death isn't frightening anymore. It's just tiring."

"And what else has been bothering you?" Kozin asked. He could tell.

Undevar stopped. He turned towards a window, placing both hands on the sill as though he didn't trust the strength of his own legs. Here, the distant shoreline could be seen. Waves outlined in foamy white lapped against the pale sand. "I've been having dreams, lately." The grandmaster paused, and then mused, "Well, doesn't this sound familiar between us, laddie? Except the roles appeared to have switched."

Kozin fell silent. He remembered that conversation he had with the grandmaster so long ago—and the days gone by. He had just been a boy, and Undevar seemed so strong back then. A towering colossal—mighty and invincible. Kozin didn't know what had happened, but suddenly that titan had become the weary old man next to him. "What kind of dreams?" he asked.

"I see my grandmaster in them," Undevar began. "I see him, and he looks back with eyes that say every thought in his head. He says it's me, laddie—I'm the reason Bear is falling into ruin. I'm too soft, and I've gone against him and every grandmaster before him. Once we were colossi, he told me, bowling through everything in our paths—man or monster. We were revered because we were feared. And now… now, he says, I waste my time nursing every pup on my doorstep when I should have only focused on the strong."

Taking a hand from the sill, Undevar turned towards Kozin. "Take your brother, Oslan, for example. He's a fine witcher—I can say that with no hesitation. But he is far too emotional, and if my former grandmaster stood in my place now, he would have let that boy wither away in a forgotten corner. And Andryk—Freya be my witness when I say that glaikit fool would have given the last drops of his waterskin away to another even if he too were on the brink of death. He's just that kind of man. But Valdre would have taught him to keep the water for himself, to trust no one and step on others to gain. And you…"

Kozin thought he saw something within the deep brows of his grandmaster's face. Something like sorrow, pain and… fear.

"He would have turned you into a monster."

Kozin quickly swallowed and looked down, hoping the grandmaster could not read his face. His mind retreated to pleasant thoughts, which, of course, became hazel eyes and golden locks. "Well he isn't here," Kozin stated. "You are. Respect through fear is overrated, grandmaster. There's more to life than that. Os is happy and Addie is the man he ought to be."

Undevar faced the window. "Indeed," he muttered quietly. "Maybe I'm doing something right, then?"

"You have," Kozin affirmed, stepping closer to the old witcher and clamping a steady hand on his shoulder. "It's the other grandmasters who did things wrong, and they've left you with the mess."

"Telling myself that has kept me sane for the past 66 years," Undevar admitted. Then, he took his hands from the windowsill and straightened. Under the cloud-filtered light, the grandmaster suddenly transformed from a weak old man to a tall, hulking witcher. "Think nothing more of this conversation, laddie," he said, his voice regaining its throaty rumble. "These matters are trivial. Not a word to anyone—not the masters, not the witchers, not Theila, aye?"

"Grandmaster, it would help to talk to someone," Kozin suggested, concerned for the old man's wellbeing. "Just putting things into light—."

"That's what we did, laddie. And frankly, I'm not interested in spilling my feelings out any more than that."

"You can't just keep this locked up inside."

"I can," Undevar grunted, "and I shall. Not a word, I say. Do I have to repeat myself?"

"… No, grandmaster."

Undevar turned away and continued down the hall. Kozin followed after him. "You can't stay here, laddie, not while the season's young. Off you go, then."

"What about you?"

"I'll be right here if you need me."

Kozin caught up to the grandmaster. "You don't have to sit here and just wait for everyone to come back. Go to Vintrica—spend time with Theila like she does here in the winter." He was certain that if the sorceress knew the situation the old grandmaster was in now, she'd whisk him away in a heartbeat.

"Of all the horseshite that has come out of your mouth, laddie," Undevar dismissed. "She doesn't need some bumbling fool like me taking up her workspace. I hear she has an apprentice under her wing now."

"… I've heard."

"Then you should know she's a busy woman, especially in the spring. Now enough of this. Get off the island before I take it upon myself to throw you off."

Kozin's horse was prepared, loaded with supplies and freshly polished tack. Kozin had restocked his supplies and witcher potions. The wind caught in the sail and bulged the canvas out. Ripples leaked out from behind the boat as the vessel gained speed and moved away from the dock. At the till, Kozin looked back. On the shore, the grandmaster stood, silently sending the young witcher off as he had done every year since his first season.

* * *

Nine years had passed since Kozin had played a game of logic and truth with a devil. Nine good, normal years—or as normal as a witcher's years could be. It was enough time for Kozin to forget the harrowing things that Gaunter O'Dimm had showed him. The credence he had on life was restored. Nine years gave him plenty of opportunities to hunt with his brothers.

The three of them even took on a contract together to rid a noble family of the basilisk that had wormed its way into the family crypt and devoured the crypt keeper. It was a long hunt, and it had been dangerous. But when it was over, and the monstrous serpent lay dead on the dusty crypt floor, the three brothers found themselves laughing through their exhaustion. That is, until Andryk with his wicked sense of humor had decided to slap a handful of freshly steaming, putrid basilisk guts straight into Oslan's face. Of course, the blond witcher had reached into the serpent's slit belly and wrestled Andryk down to deliver him his comeuppance. And when Oslan, in his triumphant victory, had pushed himself off of his brother, Aegis rushed over to dutifully lick the gore from her master's face before he could hold her back.

They returned to An Skellig to spend quieter nights in Oslan's home. Arda's cooking, they discovered, was worth sailing back from the Continent for. Tillie, now a fully matured ewe, bleated loudly when Aegis chewed on her toys and taught the dog a lesson with a strong head butt.

And then there were nights in the taverns of Ard Skellig, where the drink burned fiercely and the men could sing their drinking songs perfectly even when completely and utterly pissed. After enough tankards, the three witchers knew nothing except for throwing fists at each other and waking to bruises and sore knuckles.

But when it came to going to brothels to scratch a certain itch, Kozin found himself going alone. Oslan wouldn't go for obvious reasons, and Andryk was still cut too deep to go as often. They both had similar problems—certain women crowded their minds too much for them to fully enjoy themselves, though that was the very reason Kozin found himself entering those perfumed rooms. He always went drunk, because he found it easier to forget her and focus on the soft, carnal sensations the whore gave him. And for good measure, he always avoided the golden-haired girls.

Then, as though they had been waiting for nine years to arise, Kozin's demons returned to remind him that they still existed. This year, Kozin had spent the season alone. Oslan had gone home, and things went quiet. Andryk went his own way, and Kozin did the same. That winter, they all converged back to the Bear keep. But something was different, and they all quickly learned what it was. Two months ago, Tillie the ewe had passed.

Kozin was startled. He knew Tillie was old—11 years was the normal lifespan of a sheep. He just never imagined her death would come so abruptly. He thought of the tiny lamb that had followed him around and nibbled his ear. That creature was gone.

Even at the keep, Arda cried because although Tillie was never really a daughter, she had been a beloved member of the household. Oslan would soothe her tears away, but one day the loss hit her hard and his words couldn't comfort her.

That's when the wide-framed form of the grandmaster appeared in the chilly courtyard. He sat next to the crying woman, and she nearly disappeared into his furs when he put his arm around her. "Let her be, laddie," he told Oslan. "Let her cry until the grief dries up."

Kozin leaned just outside the doorway, too unsure of himself to interfere. He listened as Undevar continued to talk to the distraught woman.

"Losing a dear one is shattering, lassie. I know that. It hurts, aye. Don't let it keep you down. Long ago, it happened to me. 'Twas a wee girl, just a child. The gods were cruel to take her so soon."

"What 'appened te 'er?" Arda managed to ask through her tears.

"I don't understand enough about life to truly know," Undevar said, "but from what her mother told me, she was born ill—disfigured. Poor lassie couldn't even stand on her own. Her da wasn't married to her ma, and saw the deformed babe as more reason to take off." Undevar kept his arm around Arda, but Kozin heard the rustle as the grandmaster wearily rubbed his brow. "I was passing by when her ma stopped me. Grabbed my horse's bridle, she was so desperate. She had a favor she couldn't ask any man in town, so she had to ask a stranger instead. The little bairn was dying, you see—couldn't last very long in that withered body. Aye, that favor…" The grandmaster trailed off as though he were short of breath.

It was deathly quiet as everyone waited for the grandmaster to continue. "It was a tough one, lassie. Tougher than any monster contract I've gotten. Her ma wanted me to give the child something she never had before she went—she wanted me to be her da. I wager I looked nothing like the rot-bellied fool, but the bairn wouldn't be able to tell. And she was too ill to know better anyhow."

Undevar took a deep breath. "So I did what the woman asked. And that little girl—her head was too big, her legs were too small. Every breath she took sounded like it took everything she had. It was devastating to see a child having to exist like that. But by the gods, when she saw me she had the brightest smile I'd ever seen. She called me 'da' and told me her ma said I would come back one day. She asked me what had taken so long, and I had to make something up. It was something about my horse breaking its leg, and she said she hoped it was feeling better. Too sweet—that little thing.

"She asked me if we could play with her doll. It was a beautiful little thing. But she was too weak to even hold it anymore, so I held it for her. She tried to play with it, but soon even talking became a struggle for her. I told her it was time to go to bed. I'd make her breakfast in the morning, I said to her. She was drifting off, but not to sleep. And while she did, I kept telling her that I'd missed her and I was happy to be home. That I was so glad she was my daughter and that I was her da.

"Her ma tried offering me coin, but all I asked for was the doll. She was happy to part with it. I tucked it in my saddlebag and rode off—another contract done. Except this one made me ride far into the woods, away from anyone. I sat under a tree and wept until nightfall because that girl had really believed I was her da, and she was gone. Her doll has been with me ever since."

"Is that… is that th'doll ye tried givin' te Tillie?"

"It's worn and faded now," Undevar replied heavily. "Just like my memories of her. I can't even remember her name." He patted the woman's back gently. "I'm sorry, lassie. I meant to cheer you up, and I've only given you a mournful story."

"No, it's beautiful," Arda replied, sniffing. "Ye made a world's difference fer tha'girl."

"Aye," came the quiet reply.

Kozin heard Arda say something else, but he was no longer following the conversation. He pushed away from the wall and hurried deeper into the stone keep, a storm cloud of dread brewing deep in his stomach. He could practically hear Gaunter's voice in his ears, ringing like a funeral bell.

 _The one who remembers being left behind by a daughter._ _These things I have told you are truths._

 _He was right_ , Kozin realized, his heart racing. _And what else was he right about? What else?_

His boots scuffed quickly up the steps as he looked for an isolated balcony to light his pipe on. But when he took out his pipe, Kozin realized that lighting it was no use. Instead, the witcher bowed forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. Snow began to drift down, but he wouldn't move.

* * *

Gelibol was a small Redanian city located at the foot of the Kestrel Mountains. Kozin's path led him there, and the Path had a peculiar tendency to lead him to fate.

The city was just about as remarkable as a troll's left foot, except it smelled a little better. A little. As the city bordered the mountains, its main commerce revolved around a coal mine dug deep into the mountains. Which, of course, didn't produce a very flattering odor.

Kozin began silently predicting the kinds of monsters he'd likely be assigned to face. Gelibol sat by the Ninmar River. Places close to the water typically had drowner problems, Kozin knew. Or water hags, if luck wanted to be a bitch. Kozin had made sure there was plenty of necrophage oil to spare. His only worry was that the people here would try and swindle him out of the already bone-cheap price of drowner heads. Although, mountains played host to more expensive monsters like dragons and griffins. And the mineshaft was likely to attract giant centipedes and other burrowing creatures.

At the thought of griffins, Kozin's mind drifted back to the last time he had fought one. That had been by the river near Blaviken. The witcher exhaled heavily through his nose as an additional part of the memory intruded into his mind—one that he had fought long and hard to keep in the back.

Kozin didn't bother to dismount as he entered the city. The smell of trout oil and burning coal was loathsome. As usual, people avoided his gaze. No one flagged him down as he guided his horse slowly through the streets. His next option was to check the notice board, or strike up conversations at the local tavern.

Only a few notes were pinned to the notice board, flapping meekly in the breeze. One was from a farmer looking for someone to help him fix his fence. Wolves had broken in a few nights ago and gotten one of his sheep. Another announced some town hall meeting that was to commence in a few days. The last one was from a mother looking for a bride for his son—which made Kozin snort. He turned and led his horse away, following the smell of alcohol to Gelibol's tavern.

The stench of coal and earth didn't let up when Kozin stepped through its doors. It was midday, and the miners had flooded from the tunnels to here for their break. They were distinguishable from the other patrons by their sooty faces and dirty hands. And by their loudness.

They didn't seem bothered by Kozin's presence. In fact, they seemed pleased by it, judging from how they hooted and beckoned the witcher over. It had been a while since Kozin had a drink with good company, so he obliged. The miners were a cheerful bunch, and they had plenty of good stories to tell. They told Kozin of how a witcher had cleared the mines of a shaelmaar a few years ago.

"Don't know how you lot do it! The thing was practically made of rock!" one miner remarked. "But sure as piss, the fucker comes barreling out, herding the thing like a shepherd's dog. Struck it dead in front of our eyes!" As he struck down his tankard onto the table, he cried out, "Damn!"

Kozin wiped the beer froth from his whiskers. "Sounds like it was one hell of a fight." Taking down a shaelmaar was nothing to scoff at.

"Oh, you bet your ma's arse it was!" another miner replied. "And that's not the strangest thing the mine's seen!"

"There's something else?" Kozin said, intrigued. Strange things meant monsters, and monsters meant coin.

"Aye, there is," the miner across from him said. Then, he leaned forward and continued, "A wench."

"A lass?" Kozin repeated with less enthusiasm, his hope for a decent pay deflating.

"You watch your fucking tone, witcher!" the miner to his left snapped. "This aren't no ordinary wench! She puts every other girl I've ever laid eyes on to shame, she do! Nearly put the pickaxe through me own hand at the sight of her!"

"That's right!" another chimed in. "Could've sworn she was Melitele in the flesh! In fact, I tolds her that! Got a right lovely laugh outto her!" He looked pleased with himself, which made the others grumble with disgust.

"Shut your shit hole, Aspen. Your sweet talk with her yesterday made me just about ready to puke."

"And she was sweet talkin' right back!" Aspen replied smugly. "Don't be trying to pull the tall oak down just 'cause you got fuck all's chance, Noles."

"Get your head out of your fucking arse," Noles grumbled back.

Kozin scooted his tankard towards the edge of the table as the barmaid came over with refills. "So what's a lass like that doing in the mines?" he asked.

"Dunno," another miner said with a shrug before bringing the tankard to his lips.

"That's 'cause the lot of you were too busy ogling her and draggin' your jaws on the ground," the oldest of the miners, his temples flecked with gray, grumbled into his tankard. He seemed to be the least enchanted by this strange woman. "She was asking if any of the miners had developed a cough. I told her about Emil."

"Hell, if coughin' conjured up a tasty bit like that, I'd be hackin' my lungs up!"

"And it'd be a damn blessing to us all if you did," the old miner snapped back. "Anyway, witcher, she was asking about the coughing. Said she was, uh… lemme think… right, said she was learning to be a healer."

Kozin's entire frame shuddered as he choked his mouthful back up into the tankard. He wiped the beer dripping from his lips and repeated, "A healer, you said?"

"Aye," the old miner replied, perplexed at the witcher's strange reaction. "Something about that rub you wrong, witcher?"

Kozin shook his head. "Nay, I just… the ale went down wrong."

"Ah, I've had the same happen to me!" Aspen said with a sympathetic nod.

Kozin cleared his throat, putting on an air of boredom as he flicked at a fly that had landed on the rim of his tankard. "This lass," he said, "what does she look like then?"

"Oh, _mate_ ," a miner said in a drawn-out voice. "You wanna know? Got an arse that'd fit perfectly in a man's hand."

"Tits so plump you can see their curves through that airy blouse," another added. "And hair so soft you just want to wrap your hands in it."

"What color is her hair?" Kozin asked casually.

"Aha!" Noles laughed. "The witcher's leaving no stone unturned. Trying to build up a good, clear picture for later?" He raised his hand over his lap and moved it in a quick up-down motion, which spurred laughter from the rest.

"Come on, lads," Kozin sighed. "It's just a simple question." He already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it for himself.

"Golden and pale as an elf's," Aspen answered. "Comes down in waves that remind you of the wind going through tall grass."

"We got ourselves a fucking bard over here," a miner mocked. Aspen reached over to give him a whollop. Kozin threw back his head and drained the last of his ale.

"Lads," he said, slamming his tankard down, "it's been a real pleasure, it has. 'Fraid I have to move on. As my mate says, a settled witcher's a starving witcher."

"Been a real hoot drinkin' with ya."

"Right, then," the old miner said, thumping both hands on the table and rising. "Quit dallyin' now, boys. Off your arses and back into the mine with you dogs." The men groaned. Their protests were muffled as the tavern door swung shut behind Kozin, and he turned onto the street. A man leading a mule approached him from the opposite direction. Kozin stopped him to ask for Emil.

"Got sent home recently because he was sick, I hear," the man answered, and then turned his shoulders to point. "Lives up that way, just three or so houses beyond that one." Turning back, the man muttered. "Always hated that street. Don't like the way it slopes uphill. Not good, not good." He continued to mutter as he led the mule away.

Kozin followed the man's directions, unsure of why his heart pounded so as he walked up the rising street. As he approached, he heard a woman's voice waft from the house he was headed to. She sounded terrified.

"—do we do?" she asked, her voice trembling. "They only give a week before they expect miners to return. They'll come knocking for him soon."

"Keep calm," another woman responded. Kozin recognized her voice. "If they come around, we'll tell them he's too sick to even stand."

"What if they ask to come in?"

Cayessa didn't respond to the woman's question. As Kozin walked up to the front door, his keen senses told him about all the inhabitants of the house. Something stood out, and it worried him. He raised his hand and knocked twice on the door. He heard the woman with Cayessa give a sharp, terrified gasp.

Cayessa quickly shushed her. "Go into the room and shut the door," she told the woman. "I'll answer." Quick, scurrying steps followed her words. Lighter ones came to the door. Kozin heard the click of the latch, the grinding of the turning knob, and the creak as the door opened. A face appeared—a face he hadn't seen in nine years.

The sight of her stole his breath for the briefest of moments. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her face had lost its childish roundness. Time had gently sharpened the features of her face and sculpted her cheeks into soft slopes. Her hair, still a pale gold, was partially tied back while the rest of it billowed down in waves down her back. A loose white blouse wrapped around her arms, revealing bare shoulders, and a dark brown mini corset fastened the flowing cloth to her waist. A white line ran across her chest, just below her collarbones—a scar where a griffin had once scratched her.

She looked even more shocked to see the man standing before her. Her mouth dropped open, but then she quickly closed it to gasp, _"Kozin?"_

The witcher offered her a grin, drinking in the sweet vanilla perfume. "Hello, kitten," he greeted. He noticed how Cayessa's fingers were white on the door.

"I… I didn't expect to see you here," she admitted, a touch of red spreading across her face.

"Nor I," Kozin replied, suppressing the urge to run his fingers over those pink cheeks. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. "Mind if I step in, lass?"

"Um…" Cayessa answered uneasily. "I'm… I'm busy, Kozin. There's a miner here with black lung. I really can't let—." Kozin cut her off suddenly, grasping her shoulders and backing her away from the doorway as he stepped through. There was a click as the door shut behind them. Flustered, Cayessa looked up at the man towering over her. "Kozin!" she yipped.

The playful grin died on the witcher's face as his brows crashed over his narrowed eyes. There was something very wrong here, and he could no longer delay addressing it. "Cayessa," he began solemnly, glaring down at the blonde woman. "Explain to me why there's a dead man in the house."

* * *

 _Hold me down, sweet and low, little girl_

 _Hold me down, sweet and low, and I'll carry you home_

 _Hold me down, sweet and low, little girl_

 _Hold me down_

 _And I'll carry you home_

"Sweet and Low"—Augustana


	45. Chapter 45 - Terminal

The interior of the house was cozy, but a little too stuffy for Kozin's liking. It was modestly furnished with the essentials—small hooks by the door for coats, a tiny table with two chairs pushed up against the left wall, and a worn loveseat next to a furnace that had been refashioned into a makeshift fireplace. A small, striped rug lay at the center of the room.

As the front door shut behind him, Kozin watched Cayessa's eyes widen with shock.

"D-dead…? No, no… I don't know what you're talking about." Golden, wavy locks brushed against her back as the sorceress quickly shook her head, the scent of vanilla flooding the air. Kozin patiently watched the common expressions of a liar play over her face. "Kozin, I'm glad to see you, but we have to catch up later. Emil is very sick and—."

"Dead, not sick," Kozin said, crossing his arms. "Pretty big difference. As a healer you ought to know better."

Cayessa stared wordlessly. She opened her mouth, and then closed it.

"Black lung's a slow killer. So why is he dead now?"

There was a fleeting look of primal fear that surfaced in the sorceress's eyes, like someone forced to confront their childhood fear. "I-I didn't mess up," she said in a wavering voice. "I did everything I could." Her eyes hardened, and the child in them disappeared. With a forceful voice, she continued, "I did what any sorceress in my position would have done."

"I'm not accusing you of messing up, lass, so calm down," Kozin grunted, shrugging. "Just tell me what's going on."

Cayessa looked away, wrapping her arms over her stomach. "I've been studying wounds, ailments, and diseases for almost a decade," she said, "but I've never seen anything like this before."

"What? Black lung?"

"No, you idiot," Cayessa hissed, irate. She paused. "Sorry… sorry, I just…" After taking a deep breath, she said, "Black lung didn't kill him, Kozin. It was something else." Before she could say anything else, the door at the opposite end of the room opened. A young woman stepped through. A young widow, Kozin realized.

"He was fine," the woman said softly. "Just a few days ago, he was fine. 'Cept for that cough. Never seen a person fall ill that quickly before."

"Some diseases are highly unpredictable, Dalia," Cayessa answered softly. The air of professionalism she had about her was one that Kozin had never seen on her. The pouty, arrogant teenager was gone… Well, not gone. Suppressed was perhaps the better word.

Dalia lowered her hollow eyes. Her face was that of one who had shed too much sorrow to show any more. Kozin felt a touch of pity for the young woman. The couple had probably still been newlyweds, he guessed. Then, Dalia raised her eyes and allowed them to drift over to something on the wall. It was a crown of flowers, long since dried.

"What am I going to do now?" The question was uttered softly.

Cayessa turned away from the witcher and stepped over to the woman. She placed a hand gently over Dalia's shoulder. "Do you have other family?"

"My pa lives along the river, a few miles west of here," Dalia answered, still gazing at the flowers. "Emil and I moved here right after we wed. Pa always warned me. He said miners didn't live long… suppose he was right." Her voice broke on the last word. She ducked her head down and pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs, but her shoulders shook as she cried.

Cayessa quickly pulled the young woman into a hug. "I'm sorry," she soothed quietly to Dalia. "I'm so sorry."

Kozin looked away, fingers tightening over his arms. He didn't like the atmosphere in here—not one bit. The idea of stepping out and leaving Dalia to grieve in peace came to him, and he was on the verge of following it when Cayessa said, "Kozin, I need you to do something for me."

The witcher almost groaned. "What do you need?"

The sorceress turned her head to look back at him. "I'm taking Dalia back to her father," she said. "But I need someone to look after the house while I'm gone. And to make sure no one… disturbs anything in here."

 _Housekeeping?_ Had it been anyone else asking for this favor, Kozin would have returned with a biting retort. But damn it, he couldn't to this woman. Not when she looked at him like that, with her golden hair cascading over her shoulder. And not when his heart felt livelier than it had in the past nine years at the sight of her.

The witcher loathed broadcasting his emotions, so he put a harsh mask over his face and glowered. "Fine," he mumbled. "But I'm not staying longer than I need to."

Cayessa examined him for a heartbeat, a strange look flickering in her eyes. It was almost as if she was challenging his words. Then her face resumed its stoic, polished expression as she took her arms from around Dalia. "Come on, dear," the sorceress coaxed gently, putting a hand between the woman's shoulders and guiding her towards the door. "Let's step outside and get you to your father. Travel by portal only takes a few seconds." Kozin moved aside for them. The door swung open and closed, but he could still hear their words.

"Is it safe?" Dalia asked, her voice trembling.

"Yes. Just hold onto my arm," Cayessa told her. A familiar roar followed her words. Kozin listened until the noise of the portal died down, leaving him in silence. The witcher grunted out loud and looked around the small house. Aside from the front door, there were two other doorways. The one on the right side was more of an open archway. The smell of spices, herbs, and food items told Kozin that it was the kitchen. He humored himself with the thought that maybe he ought to grab himself a snack while he was playing guard dog, but quickly pushed the silly idea away with a reminder of the tragedy that had taken place under this roof.

The one at the opposite end, the one that Dalia had stepped through, likely led to the bedroom. Emil was there, Kozin knew. As his death was recent, there was no smell of decay just yet. But the odor of bitter coal and sharp, medicinal herbs radiated from behind that door. And there was something else—something unusual. It was a musty, earthy smell, like something Kozin expected to come from the underside of a wet rock.

He took a seat at the small table. His trusty companion, the black pipe, was taken out. He pinched the mouthpiece between his teeth and had just placed his fingers onto the drawstring pouch that held his tobacco when his eyes fell on a bag leaning against the wall.

It was a beautiful leather pouch, polished to a rich, dark brown shine. The identity of its owner was easy enough to tell, given the vanilla scent that wafted from it. Devilish curiosity seized the witcher. Rising from the chair, he casted a quick, instinctive glance towards the door before moving towards the bag.

He lifted it up and placed it on the table. It was heavier than it looked, and opening it told him why. The bag was filled to the brim with handheld instruments, all of which looked completely bizarre and foreign to Kozin. There were also several forms of medicine—herbs, powders, salves—giving off a cacophony of smells. Eyeliner pencils, potted lip-gloss, and other cosmetics also made up a large portion of the bag's contents. Among them was an unmarked, ceramic pot. Kozin twisted off the cap and was rewarded with a punch of vanilla to the face. He looked over the shimmery, translucent glamor briefly before sealing it and putting it back. After rooting through the bag again, he found a wooden trinket. It was similar to the one Theila had given him before, but this one was much larger and almond-shaped. Kozin wondered what this one did, but quickly dropped it back into the bag before his curiosity could get the better of him.

Pushing aside the instruments, medicine, and cosmetics, Kozin found a small journal. There was… Kozin brought the journal to his nose. Yes, there was an unmistakable smell of coal on it. He opened the stiff hide cover.

Whoever had written in here had atrocious handwriting. And as Kozin read through the page's first few lines, it was very clear that the writer had not touched pen to paper very often.

 _Becus I have troble rembering lately, the docter tol me to rite it down. She wants to no abot the cofing. I tol her it was no big deel. Jus need few days res. They ar giving me a week but I onle need a few days. Got to get bak to work. I promused dalia a biger hows than wat we hav now._

Kozin flipped the page. The handwriting on the second entry had been written with an unsteady hand. The letters wriggled and overlapped one another.

 _Is not jus cofing anemore. My hed relly hurts now. Rembering is harder so its good I hav this to rite on. Docter was asking abot wy my hed hurts but I cudnt tell her becus I cudnt rember wen she asked. She tol me to rite it down wen I rember so let me think. A few days ago I was at the rivr. Was on the dok and toking to the fisurs becus I wanted to by sum eel for dalia. Herd craking. The dok was old and it brok. It was so fast I didt hav a chans to take a breth and my nos hurt wen the water went in to it. I cam bak up and went strayt home. They shud hav chekked the wud for rot._

There was a third entry on the next page. The writing was even messier. The handwriting had grown so large, each letter nearly took up two lines. Further down the entry, the words stopped following the lines and began to slant.

 _Hed hurts hed hurts a lot dalia is g eting woreed. Dcter as k how i fel andto rite wat im feli ng but it is getin rely hardt o rit evre day fels wors. cofing an hed hurts an cantsee ver wel. Somthin cam out of my nos itwas dark but wassnot blud. if i dont get betr the n hoo wil tak car of dalia?_

Kozin flipped to the last entry. There was only one line, but it filled nearly the entire page in messy scrawl.

 _Ther wus som thin in the watr it cam up with m_

A thump made the witcher jerk his head up. Immediately, his eyes snapped to the bedroom door. Kozin set the journal down. With his hand still pressed down on its hide cover, the witcher stood completely still as he listened. Nothing met his ears but silence, but Kozin didn't trust it. He was absolutely certain he had heard something coming from behind that door, even if there wasn't anything in that room but a dead man.

It was possible that a thief had managed to get in. If that was the case, then Kozin had a guard dog's job to do. He drew his steel sword, intending to only use it for intimidation. He didn't want Cayessa to have to return to two bodies.

The door flew open and the witcher stepped through, his eyes immediately drawn to every dark corner. The air smelled strongly of coal and that odd, damp smell. There was no one in the room except for the man that lay on top of the bed. He had been a large man—a career in mining had given a body that nearly rivaled the witcher's own. Kozin stepped closer, examining Emil's face. The man had been young, too young to be lying waxen-faced like this.

Kozin thought of the crown of flowers in the other room. Dalia's eyes had been forlorn when she'd looked at it, but they had also gazed at those dried petals with deep-seated fondness. Kozin wondered if the young woman had worn it on her wedding day. Perhaps Emil had made it for her.

Sudden movement pulled the witcher out of his thoughts, and he jumped back. His throat choked the cry before he could get it out, tightened with shock at the impossible sight. The sword was clenched, poised in his hands. It remained still as Kozin desperately fought to understand what he was looking at.

Emil had sat up.

Kozin waited, but the dead man gave him no acknowledgement. He continued to sit. His eyes remained closed, and his mouth was parted as gravity hung his jaw down. Exhaling slowly through his nose, Kozin slowly lowered his sword. He kept a watchful eye on the man, but Emil remained deathly still.

Magic had not moved him. This was no instance of necromancy or corporeal possession. The medallion lay still on his chest. Corpses did strange things right after death like go into rigor mortis, Kozin knew. Muscles often contracted. These occurrences were just the body settling into its eternal rest.

Even if it was natural and explainable, that didn't make it any less creepy. Kozin figured he should push the body back down. Holding the sword idly by his side, he stepped back towards the bed and reached for the man's shoulder to gently nudge him.

Just as Kozin touched him, Emil's head jerked towards, but not completely to, the witcher. Kozin immediately withdrew his hand as if burned, hissing a colorful curse under his breath. This wasn't just a natural phenomenon. Muscles weren't simply contracting post-mortem. Emil, or whatever he was now, had _reacted_ to him.

But like before, the body did nothing else. His head was turned slightly, his jaw was slightly parted. His hands lay limp on the sheets at his side. Kozin thought of draugrs, but those were rare. Not only that, but powerful magic was required to create such beings, and the pendant at his chest told him no such magic was present.

"Mate, what the fuck are you playing at?" Kozin mumbled to the body. As expected, it didn't answer. Kozin leaned against the dresser, propping his steel sword beside him. He continued watching the body. Every so often, it would move—twitch, more like. Aside from the jerking of its head before, it made no indication that it was aware of the witcher. Or that it was aware of anything for that matter.

Finally, after a while, the body fell back onto the mattress with a prominent thump. Still, Kozin watched. It was a corpse again, lying still as death. Kozin's finger tapped against his arm as he pondered to himself. Never once had Emil's pulse returned. His lungs pulled no air in. Emil was gone. Something else had moved his body.

Kozin heard the door open. Light footsteps entered the home, and his name was called out. Then he heard Cayessa gasp sharply.

He appeared at the bedroom door and spotted the sorceress by the table. When she heard him, she looked up, her eyes burning with accusation. "Were you looking through my bag?" she hissed.

Kozin didn't feel like entertaining her superfluous question. "Cay," he began.

"I asked you to look over the house, not into my things!" Cayessa continued, her voice reverting to that huffy, petulant tone he had grown to know. "You don't look through a girl's purse, you dumb oaf! I can't believe this!" She pulled open the bag and began looking for any sign of damage within.

"Cay," Kozin repeated, his voice steely.

"What?"

"What came up from the water with him?"

Without looking up, Cayessa asked, "Did he move again?"

"Move? He sat the fuck up, and tried looking at me when I touched him. I don't think it's necromancy, but I can't be too sure. You didn't…?"

Cayessa finally took her eyes away from the inside of the bag. She was holding the journal Kozin had left out. "Me? Of course not. Necromancy is forbidden," she said, like was the most obvious thing in the world. Behind him, Kozin heard another thump. He knew Cayessa heard it too. Jerking his head back towards the room, he said, "He's dead, Cay. So why is he moving?"

The journal produced a loud boom as she slammed it down onto the table. "I know he's dead!" she suddenly cried, her hands clenched into fists. "Stop telling me that! _I know! I tried!_ "

"What's gotten into you?" Kozin growled, but he regretted it as soon as the words had left his mouth. His mind jumped back to that spot by the river where he had sat nearly a decade ago. Next to him had been a girl so afraid of failure, she had been willing to retreat into the abyss of death to avoid it. "Fuck. Cay, I—."

He was interrupted when Cayessa snapped something in Elder and pointed at the front door. It flung open and hit the wall with a loud crack. Then, the sorceress's arm swept as though she were knocking things from a desk. The witcher's feet left the ground and he found himself becoming unbearably weightless as he was flung out from the house. Flashes of white and black filled his sight as he hit the ground and scuffed a short distance across the dirt. Kozin propped himself up and heard another boom as the door slammed shut. The doorframe had cracked.

He pulled himself onto his feet and hurried back to the house. The door was stuck shut, and his medallion hummed and skipped against his chest. He tried at the handle again. "Cay!" And again. This time, the doorknob tore away with his hand. Kozin glanced down at it and tossed it aside. He brought the side of his fist against the door, rattling it in its frame. "Cay, open up!"

The door finally did open to him. Behind it stood the sorceress with her arms folded over her chest. Dark smudges of eyeshadow streaked across her cheeks, smeared by tears and abrupt fingers.

"Why are you still here?" she demanded. "This isn't even your concern. Just run off a-and—." She threw an arm out towards the horizon. "And do whatever witchers do!"

Kozin's eyes drifted down her neck. "You're still wearing that necklace." His voice had grown soft.

"W-well, yes," Cayessa replied shakily, struggling to uphold the anger in her voice. A hand flew up to clasp the bright blue gem. "It's pretty and expensive-looking, so why not?" She looked up, startled, when the witcher suddenly stepped through the door. Cayessa retreated backwards one pace, but Kozin came up quicker until their bodies were nearly touching. Red touched her soft cheeks. "No," she said quickly, though by contrast one hand came up to rest just next to his medallion.

When they were this close, he towered over her. When Cayessa dared to meet his eyes again, Kozin found himself gazing down at her with that same look. He felt her heart, beating fast and heavy, and couldn't tell it apart from his own. The witcher watched her eyes flutter shut and her head tilt up expectantly. An arm wrapped around the small of her back and pulled her in to close the small distance between them. He longed for his armor to be discarded so he could feel the shape of her press against him.

His lips crashed over hers, gently like the tide on the beach. Kozin felt her hand come around the back of his head. Then it slid down his neck and rested at its base. Cayessa pulled away from him, drawing in a shaky breath and turning her head when the witcher sought her lips again. He trailed kisses along her jaw when he heard her utter those dreaded words: "No, not now Kozin."

His hands tangled into her hair. "It wasn't your fault," he murmured into her skin. He really had no idea what he was talking about.

Firm hands planted on his chest and pushed. Kozin withdrew, and Cayessa freed herself from his arms. She walked over to the table and lowered herself heavily into one of the chairs. As he watched the downtrodden woman, Kozin cursed himself. _You fucking ass! Addie's the one who thinks with his dick instead of his head, not you!_

Kozin scooted the second chair to face Cayessa and sat down. "I…" He sighed, too reluctant to apologize. "All right, Cay. Talk to me."

Cayessa propped an elbow on the table. She cupped her cheek in her hand. "At the temple, they warned me. Not everyone can be saved. Sometimes all we can do is ensure a peaceful passing. Companionship in the last moments. The priestesses told me to prepare me, but they could have never prepared me for this."

"This is your first time?" Kozin asked. "In nine years?" The sorceress nodded. "That's impressive."

Cayessa turned her face into her hand. "It feels like none of that matters anymore."

Kozin leaned forward. "Cay, you can't think like that."

"You weren't there," Cayessa declared, each word weighed down with anguish. "You weren't there to hear Dalia pray each night for nearly a week. You weren't there to watch Emil grow weaker. You didn't have to tell Dalia the news or watch her break down when she realized the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with was gone."

"What happened?"

Cayessa looked down. "I thought it was just black lung," she began quietly. "But then the headaches started, and he had trouble bringing his thoughts together. I learned through his journal about the incident at the dock. After that, every single treatment I administered, no matter how subtle, made things worse. I-it was as if… as if it were resisting."

"It?" Kozin repeated.

"I examined his head," Cayessa explained. "There was, um… something in it. An organism."

Kozin blinked. Then, eerily on cue, there was another thump from the bedroom. "So that's moving the body now? That thing in his brain?"

"Yes. It integrated into the spinal cord post mortem. Sometimes it reacts to external stimuli. But it's not at all sentient, not even aware. It can't be—it's just mold."

Mold. Yes, that was it. That's what that odd smell was. But he still couldn't wrap his head around this concept. Mold was just… mold. There was no way that thing could control a human body like a puppeteer.

"Ever hear of the Cordyceps fungus?" Cayessa asked suddenly. Kozin paused, and then a scowl passed over his face.

"Stay out of my head," he growled. A playful smile curved the sorceress's lips. The impulse to trace that smile with his fingertip flashed briefly through him, and he was horrified when he realized that she had picked up on that too. But the somber cloud was still hovering over her, and that smile faded.

"Ever heard of it, witcher?"

"I'm not a herbalist, sorceress."

"You'll never find it among an herbalist's wares," Cayessa said. "It's a parasitic family of fungi that finds hosts in insects—primarily ants and caterpillars. They use these hosts to their advantage by moving them to treetops where birds can easily pick them off and spread their spores."

"They move them?"

"Yes, they grow inside the host and control them. It's very unsettling and… even more so if my guess about the mold is correct." Worry and fear crowded the sorceress's eyes. She needn't have voiced her concern. "And it was this parasite that killed Emil. It seemed to react to any form of treatment by attacking its host—going down with the ship, so to speak. It could have lived much longer in a living host, but now it only has until all available nutrients decompose away."

Another thump. Cayessa's eyes flickered towards the sound. "Luckily, this seems to be a very rare case. It's unprecedented, but it needs to be studied. I've contacted Vintrica. A party is going to come here and bring the body away to be examined." The sorceress sighed and leaned her head against her hand again. "Dalia asked me about the funeral. I told her there would have to be one without her husband's body. She was upset… understandably so. Well, there's naught to do but wait." A meager attempt at a cheery face appeared on her face before quickly dying away. "So tell me, witcher—what have you been up to these past years? Fighting monsters, being a hero?" After a brief lull, she added, "Wooing ladies?" Kozin could tell her nonchalant tone was just a façade.

"Been getting by as well as a witcher can," Kozin answered. He smirked. "I'm surprised you're not just pulling the answers from my head."

"Reading someone's current thoughts and extracting memories are two different forms of telemancy. The latter is much more complicated and I'm tired." Cayessa sat back. She blinked, her eyelids moving slowly as she tried to stave away exhaustion.

"When was the last time you slept?" Kozin asked.

Cayessa lowered her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pinched the bridge of her nose and gave her head a brisk shake. "Since my first night in Gelibol," she admitted. "I've been using spells to keep myself awake."

"Why would you do that?"

"Before Emil started having his headaches, I saw to other patients. There are so many cases of black lung because of the mines. And then when Emil started showing his other symptoms, I had to be there every hour of the day. There simply wasn't any room for sleep."

"Are you fucking daft, Cay? You'll kill yourself that way."

"Avise of Lyria kept herself awake for three weeks straight to nurture the constant stream of injured soldiers back to health during Aelirenn's Uprising," Cayessa stated. "Just so long as I use the spell in regular intervals, I'll be fine."

"Wartime calls for desperate measures. But there's no battle being fought here, Cay. Don't do this to yourself."

"Even if there is no bloodshed, there is always disease. Every hour I remain awake and working, a mother doesn't have to lose her child to pneumonia. A husband can rest easy knowing the cough his pregnant wife has will pass. A young man's broken leg can mend sooner so he can go back to work and feed the mouths at home."

"A flame can't keep burning without proper kindling," Kozin said. "And if the fire goes out, what will keep everyone warm? You can't blame yourself every time someone dies, Cay, because you'd never be able to stop. This world isn't perfect—pretty damn far from it, in fact, and every preventable death isn't going to be stopped."

"I can try," Cayessa argued. "And if I only end up saving another handful, that's still enough."

Kozin scoffed. "Still as naïve as the day I met you," he remarked. He stood and went over to the nearest window. After unhooking its latch, Kozin pushed it open. Though it was nearly summer, the frigid air and low-hanging clouds told of an impending storm approaching the small mining town. Immediately, the chilly air began permeating the cozy house.

"What are you doing?" Cayessa demanded.

"Cold air will preserve the body," Kozin answered. One by one, he opened the windows in the rest of the home. By the time he had opened the last window in the bedroom, the house was already nippy. He stepped out of the bedroom and saw Cayessa at the table with her arms crossed over her body, hands wrapped over her bare shoulders.

"Good thinking," Cayessa said. Deviously, she added, "Far too clever for a Skelligan brute like you."

Igni lit the fireplace. "How about a spot by the fire with your clever Skelligan brute?" He beckoned her over with a finger. Cayessa's lips pressed together, and she crossed her legs and stubbornly lifted her chin.

"I'm not like your other women," she proclaimed in a prideful voice. "You can't murmur to me and court me like that. My first kiss vaccinated me and I'm immune now."

The witcher's eyebrows rose. "Is that right?" he mused. "And yet your second exposure had you melting until I was the only thing holding you up."

"I always act that way when men kiss me," Cayessa shot back. "They like that. It makes them feel empowered."

Kozin throat tightened. Then, he asked slowly, "And how many men have you kissed?"

"That's none of your business."

Wordlessly, Kozin sat down on the loveseat and watched the flames flicker over the old wood. He let the silence stretch on until the sorceress found it too unbearable. "Stop acting upset," she snapped. "I know you're pretending. Witchers don't love—they just plough every skirt they can get their hands on." Kozin didn't grace her with a response. Instead, he focused on pushing as much grief and heartbreak as he could into the forefront of his mind. Sure enough, he felt a subtle tingle around his skull and behind his eyes. The Bear medallion gave a little jump.

Cayessa huffed loudly. "If you're not going to say anything, I'm leaving! I've other miners with black lung to check up on."

Kozin scratched behind his ear where the tingling was the strongest. He thought longingly of how he wished the sorceress would sit with him and give him five minutes of her time. Just five minutes. But he couldn't voice his desire out loud, because it was too much to ask of her. She was busy, and she didn't seem to love him back.

The soles of Cayessa's heeled sandals scraped against the floor as she fidgeted and crossed her other leg. "I'm leaving," she announced loudly, popping up onto her feet. "If you're just going to sit there and say nothing, then at least look after the house while I'm gone."

He let her reach the door, and then said, "Cay."

"What?" was the immediate response, and she had stopped in her tracks.

"Those men aren't going to get any worse in… say, five minutes," Kozin began slowly. "Can we talk? Just for a bit longer?"

Cayessa hesitated, but the witcher knew she wasn't going anywhere. "Five minutes," she confirmed, "but not a second more." He heard her steps return to the chair at the table. Then, they walked past it. The cushions on the loveseat sank a little lower as the sorceress took a seat. She had left a staid distance between them and leaned towards the fire.

"Of course," Kozin replied softly. He finally allowed himself to look at her. When Cayessa felt his gaze, she turned her head.

"What are you staring at?" she demanded.

He responded with a gentle smile and heard the rhythm of her heart quicken. The sorceress glanced back at the fire and cleared her throat boldly. "I thought you wanted to talk," she said, "not stare at me like some brain-dead lug."

"Tell me what happened after Theila took you back to Vintrica."

"You mean after you left me?" Cayessa retorted quickly. She folded her arms. "Well, the sorceresses removed most of the dimeridium. I was put under whenever they operated on me, but I'd always wake up numb in some places and aching horribly in others. They didn't take all of it out. At first I thought it was because they couldn't, and then I later found out it was deliberate. Theila hit me with the news about being a Source—heavy baggage for a drowsy, half-delirious girl to hear. Apparently, as a Source, my magic is too powerful for the small bit of dimeridium to suppress, but it acts as an insulator. The amount they left in me was enough to hamper my power down to the point where I can control it. Ironic, isn't it?" Cayessa mumbled, gazing into the fire. "Mages make Sources to be such big deals, but life as one was complete shit."

It was only then that the sorceress realized the witcher had wound an arm around her shoulders. Kozin felt her tense. "And then Theila took you to Melitele's Temple?"

The tension faded. "Yes," Cayessa replied. "The priestesses showed me their gardens. So, so many plants. Most were ones I'd never seen. They let me watch some of their surgeries, and had me clean a few wounds by hand. I actually felt… important." Kozin's arm curled tighter around her shoulders. Cayessa scooted closer until she was tucked against his side. "You did that for me, didn't you? Thank you."

Kozin ducked his face down and kissed the top of her head.

"Don't do that," Cayessa said.

"Why not?"

"Witchers don't love," the sorceress repeated. "And I don't want you pretending you do." She was still clinging on to her last bit of doubt.

"And how do you know that?"

"From… from experience."

"Witchers can love, Cay," Kozin said. "They just don't let themselves. It's too dangerous."

"What's so dangerous about it?"

"There's too much attachment. We are pariahs, and it forms bonds we can't afford to have."

Cayessa placed a hand on his chest. She pushed, but it wasn't enough to break away. "Then I should go," she said.

"No," Kozin replied. "This is terminal, what I have. The only thing you can do is ease the pain." Her cheek rested against him. A finger traced the metal ring bolted onto his chest plate. Kozin's hand came up from her shoulder and massaged deep circles into the back of her neck.

"Fine."

The wood crackled in the hearth as the fire continued to form a warm oasis around the loveseat. After a while, Cayessa asked, "Has it been five minutes yet?"

"Not yet," Kozin lied. Cayessa yawned and shifted against him.

"Let me know when," she mumbled. Kozin didn't say anything. He continued to rub her neck and listened to her breathing gradually slow into deep, steady breaths. Then, the witcher rested his face against her hair, feeling the softness of her hair caress his lips. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

* * *

 _It's been a real long time_

 _Since I've seen you, girl_

 _It's been a real long time_

 _In another world_

 _I've got scars to prove that I don't need you_

 _But my heart knows that I always do_

"You and Me"—Ben Rector


	46. Chapter 46 - Back and Forth

He had seen men of power fall from grace, and the sight before him made him want to laugh. And what tickled him even more was the way the haggard jarl tried to keep up his appearance. Cahal knew exactly what kind of noose had been wrapped around his company's neck. Eivend na Feachd was not in good standing with the isles. The final act that had tipped the scales against him was his selfish bid for power, an attempt that had been cut down along with the pirate lords.

And now the despised jarl had turned to the only allies he had left—men who were hated only just a bit more than he. Witchers.

Cahal slid the pipe from his lips and blew a thick trail towards the jarl's face. Eivend did not move, but his eyes fluttered against the smoke. The dim candlelight struggled to illuminate the men's faces, though Cahal saw the deep-seated fear in Eivend's eyes clear as day. Leaning back, the witcher dropped the heels of his boots heavily upon the wooden table. The thuds sounded loudly in the empty temple. Beside him, the two men accompanying Eivend tensed. The witcher, on the other hand, remained relaxed.

"What you're asking isn't easy," Cahal began in his low, gritted voice. "Nor cheap."

"Any price you name can be met," Eivend replied briskly.

"My lord," Cahal said, holding down a condescending smirk. "One might mistake your generosity for desperation."

Two fists came roughly down on the old table. "Do not mock me with honeyed insults, witcher!" the jarl hissed. "You do not know of the situation I am trapped in!"

Of course Cahal knew, but he had said nothing to preserve Eivend's silly little pride. Happier customers paid more. "Perhaps my liege would care to enlighten me?"

"I have fallen out of the king's favor," Eivend said simply. "And the other jarls have granted me protection… If I do the impossible in return."

Granted protection? Cahal wanted to snort out loud. Eivend's words were more twisted than the gnarled roots that had cracked through the temple floor. He knew the "protection" the jarls offered was stilling their hands instead of dragging na Feachd's treacherous arse to the king. "And my liege entrusts this important task to me?"

"No one else is suitable, wouldn't you agree?"

This time, Cahal threw his head back and allowed his sharp chortle to echo off the bare chamber. "I don't disagree, no," he said to the uncomfortable men. "But indulge my curiosity, if you would—what made you think it was a good idea to ask a witcher to betray his guild?"

"I sought you out specifically," Eivend answered. The jarl had managed to muster up enough courage to place his arms on the table and lean towards his amber-eyed companion. "I've heard of what kind of witcher you are."

"Have you? Is that why the presence you grace me with is guarded so?" The witcher's eyes slid over the jarl's two warriors, feeling quite insulted that Eivend had determined this to be enough to pacify the witcher. If only the jarl knew just how safe he was. "I'm flattered."

"So have we a deal?" Eivend asked.

"Only when I'm satisfied with the price," Cahal stated, crossing one foot over the other. He began listing off—3000 crowns, a strong horse, a fully equipped boat… Cahal paused. "Hmmm… doesn't seem enough," he hummed darkly. He knew, despite what the jarl wanted him to believe, that Eivend had very little power in swaying the price. He wasn't just negotiating a witcher's contract—he was bidding for his life. "As a jarl, you must have a stock of thrall wenches at your disposal, aye?"

"I could offer a few to you."

"Virgins?"

"Some of them, aye."

"My liege is too generous," Cahal purred greasily. "And one more thing—I don't want to see any resistance to me from your clan. Not for my safety, you understand." The witcher took his boots down from the table and let them slam weightily onto the ground. He leaned forward. "I just don't like being inconvenienced."

Eivend blinked under the witcher's stare. "Deal."

"Been a pleasure, my lord," Cahal finished, rising to his feet. He snatched up the sack that held his down payment. "I'll fulfill my end of this contract, and so will you." There was no question in his voice.

He trotted from the temple, enjoying the pull of the sack's load on his arm. Cahal reveled in the thought of the ale it would afford him, and there was plenty enough to spare for a pretty piece at the end of the night. He always overpaid for his whores. It made the madams turn blind eyes to the bruises he squeezed into the wenchs' soft flesh. Cahal found immense pleasure in leaving marks on his whores—like pressing blemishes into freshly laid snow.

There was a large statue at the front of the abandoned temple. Like the structure it stood before, it too was crumbling under the influence of time. Most of its face had been scored away by the elements, but its original form still held. Cahal let his gaze slither over Freya's breasts and, with a derisive snort, he turned back to the worn path.

The contract held a reward Cahal was after—one that Eivend couldn't supply to him. He had a personal interest in finding that island. There was an old friend on it he wanted to see again.

* * *

The rain had already arrived by the time Kozin opened his eyes. He squeezed them back shut and lifted a stiff arm to rub circles into them. The storm pattered a steady beat on the roof. Finally, Kozin lifted his head and looked drowsily into the dead fire. Her sweet perfume still radiated from the spot next to him, but he was alone. Kozin sat up and looked around the empty house.

"Good morning."

Kozin flinched. "Fuck!" Usually voices were accompanied by a presence—a heartbeat or breath. And they usually made sound. This voice resounded from within his ears. The sensation tingled his skin and made him want to gnash his teeth into dust.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Cayessa dismissed. "Sleep well?"

"Where are you?"

"Down at the market square getting some flour," the sorceress replied with a mocking tone. "What do you think? I'm doing my rounds, which I _should_ have done yesterday."

"Hm," Kozin grunted, leaning his head back to relieve an itch right under his jaw. "I hope you're not waiting for an apology." Suddenly, he felt a sharp, pricking pain on his rear, which made him jump onto his feet.

"Remember, witcher," Cayessa simpered in a light voice. "I have magic, and I know how to use it."

Kozin grunted and gingerly touched seat of his trousers. Then, another pain came—a mild, grumbling one that was accompanied by a groan from his stomach. The witcher glanced towards the kitchen, but heard Cayessa pipe up, "I left you something on the table."

The tabletop was adorned with nothing but a small orange orb. An apricot. "Cute," Kozin mumbled.

"I thought you might appreciate it," Cayessa replied playfully.

"That's not going to feed a man, Cay. A goat, maybe," Kozin said.

"Feed yourself," Cayessa huffed. "I'm not your mother… nor your wife."

Kozin walked through the threshold into the kitchen. As he scoured the cupboards, he said, "My ma wasn't very good at feeding me either. She let witchers do it."

"Oh," Cayessa returned softly.

Kozin shrugged, forgetting that he was alone in the house. "Not such a big deal," he dismissed, pulling out a jar of some kind of fruit preserve. There was a half loaf of bread sitting on the counter, slightly stale but still good for tucking in. As Kozin cut himself a few slices, he heard Cayessa say, "Tell me about her."

"What?" Kozin said as he slapped a dollop of preserve onto a slice with the knife.

"Your mother. What was she like?"

Kozin sighed, scooping another hefty blob onto the bread. "She's not something I enjoy talking about, Cay," he said bluntly. Reluctantly, the memory of when he last saw her surfaced in his mind. He remembered the tears trickling down his face like the blood down his neck, the heartache and confusion that cluttered his mind as he desperately sought comfort from the shrieking, cowering woman. He knew Cayessa would see, and instead tried to focus on the food he was biting into.

After a pause, the sorceress said, "I have one more patient to visit. Then I'll head back, okay?"

Kozin didn't answer as he finished his slice and prepared another. The apple preserve was nice—spiced with cardamom and heated with a bit of crushed pepper. A loud thump made Kozin stop mid-chew, but he quickly resumed eating. Anger bubbled in his stomach. He tried to suppress it, but couldn't. Cayessa's intrusion into the private recesses of his past peeved him. Suddenly, her little mind reading didn't seem so cute anymore.

Faroe. That's where she was now—the woman who had birthed him. Or maybe not. Kozin wasn't even sure she was still walking on the same earth. Well, it didn't matter now. Kozin shoved the last bit of bread into his mouth and turned back to the counter to top his last slice when he heard a particularly loud thump resound from the other room. He felt this one through the floor.

The witcher's eyes drifted over to the bedroom door as he set the knife down. He walked over and peered into the room. Emil had fallen out of the bed and lay on the floor. Kozin blew out a puff of air and stepped over to the corpse. "Didn't think I'd have to play caretaker to a corpse," Kozin mumbled as he rolled the body onto its back.

Lifting Emil back onto the bed wasn't going to be easy. The last time Kozin had hoisted up a man of his size was when he was witcherling forced to lift Master Galon up and hike down a trail as part of his training. Except Emil wouldn't be yelling at how the sun moved faster than him.

Kozin brushed the memory away, reaching down to tuck his hands under Emil's body. Just as he did, fingers shot up and latched to his wrist. "Fuck!" the witcher barked. He glared down at Emil, still corpse-like except for the hand fastened to him like a vice. Kozin tried yanking his hand away, but the grip stayed. "Mate, let off!" He grabbed Emil's wrist and tugged. Finally, the fingers loosened enough for Kozin to tear the hand away. It fell limp onto the floor.

He lifted the body from the floor and plopped it back onto the bed. Kozin turned away with a shake of his head. "This fucking mold," he growled under his breath. He had just put one foot through the door when he heard a chilling, guttural sound.

Kozin heard moaning behind him. "Mmm…" It was slow and rattled like an old gate. "Mm… mm… aa…" He turned around. "M… maaate…"

"Okay," Kozin breathed in a whisper. "What the fuck? What the fuck was that?" Louder, he said, "Did you just talk? Did you just _fucking_ talk?"

There was no answer as the body lay still. A hand twitched, but that was it. Kozin clasped a hand over his jaw and ran his fingers through his beard. "I heard it," he mumbled to himself. "He fucking spoke." He whirled around and left, shutting the door behind him.

Kozin found his spot on the loveseat and stared into the hearth's ashy cavity. His ears were pricked for any sound coming from the room, but Emil hadn't said anything else. After a short while, Cayessa returned. The rain had lightened to a soft drizzle.

"Have you sat there all morning?" she asked as she came through the door. Her bag hit the tabletop with a heavy thud. Kozin turned his head to regard the sorceress with a steely look.

"The mold said something," he stated plainly. Immediately, Cayessa's eyebrows knitted together.

"What?"

"That thing _talked_."

Cayessa placed a hand on her hip and swept a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you sure you didn't just hear me when we were talking?"

"No, you were out of my head by then."

"Hmm," Cayessa hummed. "What did it say?" It bothered Kozin how calmly she regarded the topic.

"Mate," Kozin answered. "It was repeating what I said."

"Why were you calling it mate?"

"Cay," Kozin snapped. "Of all the things."

The sorceress crossed her arms and glared. "How do you want me to react, Kozin? Throw my hands up and scream? It's unusual, yes, but like I said—it reacts to external stimuli. Maybe it was just reacting to your voice."

"It pronounced a word," Kozin said, putting an arm over the back of the seat. "That requires thought. Consciousness."

"It imitated you," Cayessa said. "Which doesn't require as much thought. Anyway, there's barely anything I know about this mold. We'll learn more when the mages examine it." Cayessa raised a hand and tapped her upper lip. "You've got crumbs in your whiskers, by the way."

Kozin brushed his upper lip with the side of his hand. "Was saving that as a snack for later," he jested.

"Gross," Cayessa giggled. She retreated back to her bag and pulled a small silver pot from it. Kozin watched as she uncapped it and used a finger to apply the pink gloss to her lips. "It's not a show, witcher," Cayessa said as she twisted the cap back on and dropped the pot into her bag.

"Don't know," Kozin replied. "Seemed deliberate to me."

"Oh I'm sorry," Cayessa said in a high-pitched voice. "Next time I'll face a corner when I do my makeup."

Kozin smirked as he rose. Cayessa watched him briefly before her eyes flickered down to her bag. Kozin's hand was itching to follow the curve of her waist. But as he stepped closer, Cayessa suddenly shimmied away. "Don't. You'll smear my gloss," she mumbled quickly. "And the sorceresses will be here soon." Kozin knew that wasn't the reason she was moving away.

"I don't get you, Cay," the witcher growled. "One second you're teasing me, and the next you're pushing me away." He had never met a woman whose direction swayed as often as this, and that was something to be commemorated.

Cayessa took a deep breath as she worried the strap of her bag between her fingers. "I'm not sure," she began slowly, "if I want you or not."

"What?"

"I want to flirt and play with you without feeling like I care," the sorceress said. "But when I'm around you, I do care. I can't stand it. I don't want to be in love with you. It's frustrating."

 _You're telling me_ , Kozin thought irately. Luckily, Cayess didn't seem to be peering into his mind. She turned away. "I don't know why you're here. I really don't," she said. "There are no monsters here, no contracts to complete. Unless you're trying to have me as one of your conquests before you move on?"

Kozin wanted to groan in exasperation but knew that would earn him another flying exit out of the house. For someone who spent such a long time in his head, Cayessa was having a hard time understanding him. "Don't you remember what I said to you last night?"

"You had me curled up at your side like a kitten," Cayessa said. "Of course you'd tell me whatever I wanted to hear."

Kozin wasn't going to play this little game of chase. He was too tired and frustrated. Nine years had passed with him longing for a girl who was now even more infuriating to deal with than she had been before. "I already told you how I feel. If you're going to keep denying it, then I'm not even going to bother anymore."

"Fine," Cayessa replied, her voice shrilly. She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. "That's good, because there was a young miner I'm planning to see later anyway."

"You have fun, then," Kozin snarled. "And I'll have my fun at the brothel in the next town."

At that, she whirled around. "Y-you—!" Cayessa stammered. She fell silent under the witcher's burning scowl.

"What?" Kozin encouraged furiously. "You want to say something?"

Anger squeezed tears from the sorceress's eyes. "You… You're not worth it!" she suddenly shouted. "After all these years, you're not even worth it!" She jabbed a finger at the witcher. "And _you know what?_ You—!"

"Shh, Cay," Kozin suddenly hissed, his eyes darting to the front door.

"Don't you dare shush me!"

"I'm serious," Kozin snapped, glaring back down at Cayessa. "There are a lot of people heading towards this house." Following his words, someone pounded on the door.

"Hopefully it's an angry mob to come and drag you away," Cayessa hissed at him before turning on her heel to answer the door. Kozin grabbed her shoulder to slow her down before she reached it.

"Let me," he told her.

"You don't need to get involved," Cayessa said. "It's the sorceresses here to pick up the body."

"It's not," Kozin said. "It's a lot of people. Women _and_ men. They don't sound too happy."

"Why…?" Cayessa trailed off, glancing towards the door. Gently, Kozin pushed her back and approached the door. He gave the sorceress one more glance before opening the door.

It _was_ a mob, just as Cayessa had wished. Guardsmen stood in a ring around the entrance of the house, cornering Kozin in. Behind them, a crowd of restless townspeople gathered to watch. At the front of the guards stood a man whom Kozin assumed was the captain. One brief glance at the weapon hitched to the man's belt told the witcher it had not been used very often.

Before either man could speak, a woman in the back shrieked, "Where's the witch?" Glowing amber eyes fell harshly onto the one who had spoken.

"Say that again," the witcher ordered hotly. The tension that rippled across his audience was visible.

"Private!" the man at the front barked over his shoulder. "I told you to keep them back!"

"Sorry, Constable, I—." The young guard was interrupted when a taller man pushed past him.

"She hiding in there?" he demanded. "Bring her out! She ought to face justice for what she's done!"

"Kozin," he heard Cayessa whisper fearfully behind him. "What are they talking about?"

Instead of answering, Kozin stepped out and let the door shut behind him. His eyes fell on the man at the front. "Constable," the witcher addressed. "What's going on here?"

"What is your name, witcher?" the constable asked.

"Kozin."

"Kozin, I am Constable Raleigh. Are you with the wi—erm, sorceress?"

 _I've tried to be. She won't let me_. "No. I'm just passing by." Kozin crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Then this is none of your business. Step aside and let us do our investigation."

Kozin felt a fleeting flutter of panic. He couldn't let them into the house and see Emil's body. "Not about to," he grunted. "It wouldn't be right to let you gentleman barge in and disturb a healer and her patient."

"Aren't no patient in there!" an old, bulb-nosed woman screeched. "One o'Mandy's boys ran by the house. Saw the miner through the open window—cold and dead!"

 _Fuck,_ Kozin cursed to himself. "He—."

"Black lung never killed anyone before!" a man interrupted. "We noticed the witch started spending a good amount o'time with him! Where's Dalia? That hag kill her too?"

Kozin's hands tensed, and he fought down the urge to cut through the crowd and crush the fool's larynx. "Constable Raleigh," he began slowly. "There has been some kind of misunderstanding. From what I hear, these people are only going by a young boy's word—a boy who hardly knew what he saw or decided to morph the sighting of a sleeping man into a dead one."

"That is why we are here," Constable Raleigh replied. "If the resident here is still alive, you should have no qualms about stepping aside and letting us see for ourselves."

Kozin regarded the constable until the man was practically squirming in his spot. "It's not really the miner, is it?" the witcher guessed softly. The constable remained tight-lipped. "So, who has a problem with the sorceress?" His stare flickered over to the scowling women.

"She's a seductress!" one of them burst out when Kozin's gaze fell on them. "A murderin' one, too! Bet that miner didn't take too kindly to her advances, so she offed him!" Growled agreements bubbled up around the woman, and Kozin saw a few wives cling to the arms of their husbands.

"For fuck's sake," Kozin couldn't help but snort. "Constable Raleigh, you're here on behalf of a few envious hens?"

The constable's face turned sour. "For your information, witcher, I gave the witch the benefit of the doubt by ignoring their initial complaints. Now that a body has turned up, I'm not at liberty to ignore it any longer. Now let me remind you that you are interfering with the law. Should you choose to continue guarding that door like some chained mutt, we will apprehend you by force."

The door behind him opened. Kozin felt his heart drop when he heard her dainty steps tap onto the porch. At the sight of her, voices flared up from the crowd behind the guards. Kozin heard flesh and metal knock into each other as the guardsmen braced themselves against the advancing mob. He also heard the rapid palpitating of Cayessa's heart.

"Whore!" came a screech.

"Get out of our town!"

"Go back to the cathouse you came from!"

Kozin turned towards and ducked his head down to the sorceress. "Cay," he hissed under his breath. "What are you doing? Get back in the house."

"No," the sorceress replied, her defiant voice saturated with fear. "I'm… They're here for me. Stop trying to hide me away."

"Don't be stupid, Cay. You can't reason with a mob."

"I thought you said you weren't affiliated with the witch," Constable Raleigh accused.

Kozin straightened up. "I'm not," he said. "Just trying to get this woman out of my way."

"Constable," Cayessa said, her voice quivering with quiet fury. "This witcher is meddling in something he has no business in. If you want to talk, we can step inside. Just the two of us."

"Don't listen to her," Kozin dismissed gruffly. "Constable Raleigh, I'm the only one you need to speak to."

"He's here for _me._ "

The constable's eyes and the eyes of the guards around him darted back and forth between the witcher and the sorceress. Finally, Constable Raleigh cut in and said, "Since it's clear that the both of you have a hand in this, I'll speak to both. Now step aside and let my men in."

Kozin clenched his jaw and Cayessa crossed her arms. Both of them took a step away from one another. Constable Raleigh signaled a handful of guards forward, and they filed into the house. Kozin glared at the sorceress, watching her chew on her lip and feeling frustration and worry stew inside of him. Cayessa trailed in after the guards, and Kozin waited for a moment before following her. Behind him, he heard someone shout, "Bring her back out in shackles!"

Inside the house, Kozin spotted Cayessa and Raleigh standing by the small table. To his dread, he saw that the guards had already gone into the bedroom.

"Mold?" he heard the constable repeat, stark disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, a unique breed of mold," Cayessa replied. She turned to her bag and dug through it until she pulled out a softened, hide case. From it, she took what looked to be a thin pane of glass. There was something black splotched in the center. "It developed directly in his skull, and it killed him too quickly for me to react." Though Cayessa offered the glass to the constable, he only peered wearily at it.

"It's sealed," Cayessa explained. "And the mold isn't contracted by skin contact, so don't worry."

Still, Raleigh kept his hands to himself. "Then how is it spread?"

"Through water."

The constable paled. "The river is contaminated?"

"Not like you think it is. The mold will only infect an individual if it manages to go directly into the brain. Emil fell into the water when the dock broke underneath him, and water was forced up his nose. So long as people properly sterilize any water taken from the river, there shouldn't be a problem."

Suddenly, there was a shout from the bedroom. Rapid steps pounded on the floor, and a guard rushed into the room. "Constable!" he blurted out. "The man's not dead!"

"Not dead?" Raleigh echoed.

"H-he…"

"He is," Cayessa asserted. "Constable, as I said before, the mold is integrated into his brain. Any movement you see is caused by it."

"Do you think me daft, woman? _That_." The constable pointed at the glass slide. "Cannot move a body!"

"I told you, it's a unique organism. That's why it must be taken back to Vintrica," Cayessa shot back.

Ignoring the sorceress, Constable Raleigh turned back to the guard. "What happened? Be specific."

"He, uh—his eyes opened, Constable."

Kozin saw Cayessa's eyebrows rise. He understood—this was a new one. But then a sharp, prickling sensation slid over his skin, raising hair and goose bumps as it went. In the next second, the air in the center of the room crinkled and split into a roaring, swirling portal. The men closest to it leapt back. They reached to their belts for their swords, but the constable stilled them with an extended arm.

Figures emerged from the portal, one after the other—women. Sorceresses. Three of them walked through the portal. With them was a stretcher, except it moved without wheels and hovered over the ground. A look of relief appeared on Cayessa's face, though the guards had opposing expressions.

The portal shut, bringing the house back into stifling silence. That silence was broken when one of the sorceresses looked to the constable and greeted, "Sire." Her voice, though authoritative, was a candied purr. Raleigh blinked, his face softening. "And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

"Raleigh," he answered. "Constable of Gelibol. And you, madam?"

"Brielle of Calgar, Constable. Forgive me, but might I inquire why this home is saturated with your men? We are merely here to pick up a deceased patient. I'm sure Cayessa filled you in." The sandy-haired woman's eyes glossed briefly over the young sorceress.

"Well… that is…" the constable said uneasily.

"I promise you on my honor as a Magus of Vintrica that what Cayessa told you is the truth. I assume she has shown you the mold sample?"

Raleigh responded with a nod.

"I'm sure this unique event has you worried. Rest assured that we will do everything we can to learn about this disease. And if we discover any lingering danger to your town, a report will be sent to you immediately." As Brielle spoke, the other sorceresses went into the bedroom. The stretcher drifted after their heels.

Constable Raleigh hesitated for a moment, and then signaled one of his men over. As the constable whispered into the guard's ear, Kozin felt his medallion give a little jump.

"Clear the crowd outside," the witcher heard the constable mutter. "And tell them to put 'natural death' on the report." Then, Raleigh straightened up and motioned a hand towards the door. Guardsmen emptied out of the house until only the witcher and sorceresses remained.

Finally alone, Cayessa glared at Brielle. "You… you influenced him!"

"To avoid further complications," Brielle replied. "I tried reasoning with him, but there was still doubt in his mind. We both know he died from that mold, but it would be hell trying to manually convince the rest of them out there of that." Brielle's face softened, but Cayessa's didn't. "You did good, Cayessa." She reached for the young woman's shoulder.

Cayessa turned away before Brielle could touch her and hurried over to the table where her bag sat. Letting out a delicate sigh, Brielle looked over at Kozin and graced him with a warm smile. "It's good to see you again, Kozin."

The witcher acknowledged her with a dip of his head and shot a glance at Cayessa. She still had her back turned as she packed up her belongings. Objects crashed and bumped together as she precariously threw them into her bag. Then, she snatched it up and hurried out of the house without another word.

"I don't think she's ever forgiven me," Brielle said as she watched the front door close back in its frame. "If I had known, I wouldn't have touched you."

"There's nothing still between us, right Brielle?"

"No," the sorceress confirmed. "What happened in the past stays in the past. I'm fond of trysts, but not relationships—least of all with witchers. Besides, I think you've got your hands full with that one."

Kozin grunted. "She's still confused."

"I know, and I'm worried about what she's done for self-validation in the past years," Brielle said. The sorceresses exited from the bedroom with the stretcher. This time, it hovered a little closer to the ground with the weight it carried. Emil's eyes were still open. "What took so long?"

"It grabbed Lilian," one of them answered. "Fingers were like stone. We had to use a spell to get it off."

"Remember to have its wrists bound when we bring it to Orchyn," Brielle said. The stretcher was brought to the center of the room, where Brielle opened another portal. "Good bye, Kozin. Give my regards to Cayessa." Kozin stood by and watched her disappear into the portal. The stretcher, holding Emil's body, followed. As it passed the witcher, he could have sworn he saw those glazed eyes dart to him. Then the portal swallowed the stretcher, and the other sorceresses entered after it.

Once again, Kozin was alone. He looked toward the dead hearth, split between two decisions in his head. He ought to leave… but then again, she was still out there. But the past few hours had already shown just how turbulent the two of them could get. Why did Kozin ever think their reunion would be anything different? Cayessa still hadn't grown out of that… whatever it was that made her so difficult. Or maybe, he realized, it was something she would never grow out of. That was just what Cayessa was.

Kozin sighed, wondering why that still wasn't deterring him from going after her again. _Find your horse instead_ , he told himself, and headed for the door.

He heard them as soon as he exited the house. Kozin knew exactly what was going on from the anger in their voices as they spat "Witch!" and "Harlot!" He didn't go to his horse—he went straight for those voices. To her.

They were blocking her path with a semicircle of bodies. It was a crowd confronting one person, but both parties stood their ground. Kozin noticed how most of them were women. "For Melitele's _sake_ ," Cayessa snapped, "he's still sick and I need to see him!"

"You aren't getting near any of our husbands!" a young woman near the front snapped. "Nor our sons! Nor our daughters, lest they start taking up your whorish ways!"

"I haven't done anything to warrant this! I'm trying to help!"

"You can help by getting out of our town! We've got families here!"

"I don't have time for this!" Cayessa took a step towards them. They shrank back. "Get out of my way!"

"The witch is threatening to use magic on us!"

"I never sai—." Her words were cut off and a prominent smack erupted when the thrown ball of mud hit its target.

"Put a spell on that!" someone jeered.

Kozin saw her gold hair flutter when her head recoiled. He sprang forward like a predator going in for the kill. The witcher moved faster than the crowd could react. In a blink he was before them, crumpling the collar of the teenage girl who had been snickering to her brother. Her muddy hands gripped helplessly at his wrist as he lifted her off the ground. His eyes burned with the intent to murder.

"Wh-wha—Let her go!"

"Someone call the constable!"

With a thrust, Kozin threw the girl onto the ground next to her pale, quaking brother. "Fuck off!" he roared. "All of you!" Feet scurried quickly across the ground.

His medallion juddered. Cayessa cleaned the mud from her face and hair with an enchantment. Then, she picked her bag back up from the ground. For a moment, her stood there with her stare lowered to the messy, trodden ground.

"This isn't the first time," she mumbled quietly. "Last time this happened, they just about lynched me. I… I'm just trying to help."

"A lot of people are deaf to reason," Kozin said. "Especially when they're confronted by something they don't like."

"Me."

"Cay—."

"It's okay," Cayessa sighed. "You said it yourself—you get used to it, right?" She turned around and started walking away. "Eventually, I'll get used to it."

Reluctantly, Kozin tailed after her. "Where are you going?"

"Back to my tower," Cayessa answered, still walking. Kozin caught up to her. "I know when I'm not welcomed anymore. Nothing much to do except pack up and hope for a better reception from the next town." She shot him a glance over her shoulder. "Why are you following me?"

"You're not still mad, are you?"

"I am."

"Well you're still letting me follow you."

"I didn't say you couldn't, just because I'm mad!" Cayessa snapped. "And besides, you wouldn't leave me alone even if I told you to! You're a stubborn, stupid brute!"

"There we go. I was wondering when you were going to call me that."

They had crossed Gelibol's border. Small wooded landscape hugged the town, and the pair headed into the trees. The trees weren't tightly knitted together, and Kozin was able to spot the tower long before they reached it.

It didn't look very typical for a mage's tower. In fact, it didn't look very tower-like at all. The structure that sat snugly between the loose trees was more like what one would imagine a fairytale cottage to look like. Walls of pale stone were lined with dark wooden beams. The tiled roof was a rich shade of red. Creeping thyme dripped from the windowsills in lavender bouquets, and winter creeper snaked up the walls in lush, leafy tendrils.

"That is not a tower," was the first thing that came out the witcher's mouth at the sight.

Cayessa glared. "It's not nice to criticize someone's home."

"Don't look in a girl's purse. Don't criticize someone's home. Where would I be if you weren't here to teach me manners, Cay?"

She ignored his remark and marched up to the rosebush-flanked porch. Winter creeper slid away from the door as she approached, and the sorceress's fingers touched the knob-less door. A few bolts clicked and the door swung soundlessly open. In the doorway, Cayessa hesitated.

"No man has ever come into my tower before," she admitted.

"Does that mean…?"

"I've always had them invite me to their bed. Or to an inn," Cayessa clarified quickly.

Kozin shrugged. "So are you telling me to go?"

"No." The response was sudden. "I've had a lot of firsts happen these past few days." She stepped over the threshold. The door remained open behind her. Kozin went in after her.

The first floor was one large room—a laboratory, Kozin recognized. But the only thing he recognized out of all the instruments was the megascope in the far corner. An oak desk sat against a wall, bare except for a spotted quill in its stand and a capped inkwell. A lavish, wool coat was draped over the back of the tall chair.

Cayessa moved away from Kozin and towards a set of stairs that crept up along the wall on the right. She tossed the bag onto the ground at the foot of the steps and thundered up to the second floor. Instead of following her, Kozin wandered over to a nearby window. Perched underneath it were pots of various herbs. Bored, the witcher plucked the leaf of one and took a whiff of the sharp, tangy scent it released.

"What are you still doing down there?" a voice from the floor above demanded.

Kozin flicked the leaf away. "You're inviting me up?"

"Only because I don't want you breaking any of my instruments!" the sorceress replied defensively as Kozin climbed the steps. "Or sitting in my chair! That was imported from Touissant!"

"Is that right? Couldn't tell from that giant coat slung over it." Kozin mumbled as he reached the top of the stairs. The second floor of Cayessa's tower was very obviously a living space. It too was a single, open space. A bed, vanity, wardrobe, and dresser were at one end of the room. A plush chaise lounge chair added to the bizarre, extravagant feel of the room. On the opposite side were a wide ceramic tub and a stone basin underneath a perched mirror.

"And _that_ was from Mettina!" Cayessa replied. She sat at the vanity, dabbing at the makeup around her eyes with a handkerchief. Kozin walked over, his eyes scanning over the bottles that nearly covered the vanity's tabletop.

"What's all this?"

"I need them," Cayessa said simply.

"This?" He picked up a light blue bottle.

"That's for my hair."

Kozin set the bottle down. "And this?"

"That's also for hair."

"Is this all for your hair?"

"No. This one's a lotion. And this one too, but it's for my face." Suddenly, she slapped his hand away. "Get your grubby paws off of my things!"

The witcher's brow furrowed. "Cay," he said, his voice low. "I thought you grew out of this. Apparently you haven't, and I'm not going to stick around a woman that still has the head of a shitty little bairn on her shoulders."

"I'm not being—I invited you here, didn't I?"

"Oh good, why don't I pop the celebratory champagne?"

"Why are you always like this?"

Kozin pointed at the vanity mirror. "Look in there and it'll tell you exactly why."

Cayessa turned away. "I know! I'm trying not to be like I was before," she said. "Pascal and Theila both told me my attitude is off-putting. But it's really hard to change, and these past few days have been really distressing." She sighed and rose. "I need to go back down and close up some reports. Do you need anything?"

"A tankard of ale would be nice."

"Sorry," Cayessa drawled as she descended the stairs. "I'm fresh out of those."

Kozin reached up and unbuckled his swords. He laid them against the wall before plopping down onto the lounge chair. Leaning his head back, he replayed the day's events in his head. Fuck, it had been a long one. Waking up on that armchair seemed like lifetimes ago. Downstairs, he could hear the scraping of a chair on the floor and the shuffling of papers. Kozin closed his eyes, wondering why he was still here. Seeing her again was something he had secretly longed for, but these past few days had shown that they were at each other's throats far too often. She was still an open flame that he kept reaching for.

Cayessa didn't trust him. She was afraid he was going to do what men of the road often did—promise love and eternity, and then disappear after being satisfied. Well, he was going to prove her wrong.

She came back up an hour later. The sun patch had stretched across the room, dimming as the sun set. Cayessa announced to the witcher that she wanted to take a bath and ordered him to face the opposite way.

"I can just go downstairs," he offered.

"No," she refused. "There's private documentation downstairs, not to mention delicate instruments. I want you where I can see you if you break something." Kozin was willing to bet crowns that wasn't the real reason she kept him up here. With an accepting shrug, he turned in the lounge chair and stared out the window. The sounds of running water and cloth rubbing against skin were maddening.

"You know," Kozin said, trying to drown out the noises, "I could have sworn I've been in this kind of situation before."

Water sloshed, and then Cayessa replied, "Except you can look now." Kozin turned back slowly, peeking at her through his peripheral vision. She was pouring something from a clear bottle into the bathwater. Crisp, flowery perfumes filled the warm air. "I made this with the thyme and lavender growing outside," Cayessa explained. She pulled herself to the edge of the tub and rested her arms over the lip. It was jarring how much she looked like that siren who had perched on the edge of his boat.

Kozin didn't reply and looked back out the window. The sun was just an orange hill on the horizon. Silence settled over them for a while, interrupted only by the gentle splashing as Cayessa dashed water against her shoulders and neck.

Finally, Kozin said, "Cay, tell me how you feel about me."

The splashes quieted down. Then, she said, "I've got a better idea." Kozin looked back as she pushed away from the edge. "Why don't you join me? There's plenty of space for two." He didn't like that playful grin. It almost seemed tailored to be as enticing as possible.

"Is this what you do?" Kozin asked. "Just give men what they want?"

"I just need someone tonight," Cayessa said. "And isn't this what you came for, anyway?"

"I'm not here for sex, Cay. Don't insult me like that."

Cayessa paused. "Fine. _I_ want you to come in here with me. How about that?"

"Hmm," Kozin mumbled, leaning back in the lounge chair. "Let me think about it."

"Well think quickly. The water's getting cold."

To be honest, Kozin had wanted to jump at the first invitation. Caution had held him back, warning him that Cayessa could've turned this into another shouting match. Every bit of his body screamed at him to strip off and get in the tub, but Kozin silenced each and every one of those voices. He was determined to prove a point.

Cayessa rested a chin on her glistening arms. "What's taking so long?"

"I'm not going in, so just finish your bath."

"Why not?"

Kozin refused to answer.

"So what are you here for then?"

"To make sure you were okay," Kozin said, measuring each word carefully.

"Is that all?"

The witcher looked back to the window. "No," he admitted. He felt an uncomfortable tingle behind his eyes and snapped, "Cay!" He heard water slosh. Two gentle patters sounded when the sorceress's feet touched the ground. Kozin kept his eyes concentrated on the sunset through the window, listening to the patter of water dripping from her skin. Soft rustling told him she had slipped on a bathrobe, and then she walked over to him. Kozin finally allowed himself to look at her.

She sat down next to him. The cream colored robe slipped off of one leg. Kozin's eyes were immediately drawn to the revealed thigh, but he forced them back up to her hazel eyes. Cayessa watched him quietly.

Then, she asked, "Why were you wondering where I'm headed to next?"

"I…" He glowered. "Cay, stop reading my thoughts!"

"I won't anymore if you tell me."

Kozin found it harder and harder to hold her gaze. "I was… just curious." He quickly looked down. "No, I mean—the thing is, trouble tends to follow mages and witchers alike. And where there's trouble, there's contracts and coin to be made, so I just figured…" He trailed off, unable to admit the truth. Cayessa did it for him.

"You want to go with me?"

Kozin shrugged, keeping his gaze fixed on the velvety, dark blue surface of the lounge chair.

"Why?" she demanded.

"You know why," Kozin grumbled.

"That's not the real reason. I saw it in your head. I want to hear you say it."

"I… well, I…" It was just a simple thing—saying a few words. But for some reason, some part of him fought desperately against letting those words touch air. Kozin pulled his gaze up and met hers again. "I… want to be… with you."

Cayessa's face lit up. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled herself towards him. Reflexively, Kozin looped an arm around her waist. "You do?" she squealed. "Truly?"

"Fuck, Cay. That's what I've been trying to tell you all this time."

"I was too afraid to believe you."

"What's different about now?"Kozin froze when Cayessa cupped a hand over his cheek. It was his turn for his heart to race. The sorceress brought her face closer, and Kozin found himself wrapped in her flowery vanilla scent.

"I want you now."

When their lips locked, Cayessa threw a leg over his and straddled his lap. Her weight increased the pressure in his trousers. Still moving his lips against hers, Kozin undid the sash holding her bathrobe. Cayessa pulled away and straightened up to slip it from her shoulders. Holding his breath, Kozin slid his hands up her stomach. Before he could reach her breasts, Cayessa pulled his hands away. A devilish grin curved her lips as she leaned into him and pulled at his cloak.

"Your turn, witcher."

* * *

 _Say, do you want me? Do you need me?_

 _Or do you beg for the moment_

 _When you leave me?_

 _Your heart is going to break_

 _If you try to hold it back any longer_

 _Don't wait, don't wait for the moment_

 _When you need love in return_

"Say"—Kingsfoil


	47. Chapter 47 - The Kitten and the Bear

Conversation deadened and eyes were drawn when the pair stepped through the doors and were greeted by the hostess. Both were crisply dressed, as was expected in such a setting. The lakeside restaurant was among the finest establishments in Vizima's Trade Quarter. What commanded attention was the woman—extraordinarily beautiful with a gown that matched her pale, golden hair. The skirt of the gown was made of gossamer, translucent enough to reveal alluring glimpses of her long legs with each step she took. The neckline plunged down to her stomach, leaving little to the imagination.

But what turned gazes respectfully away was the man whose arm she daintily rested her hand on. He, without a doubt, towered well over any of the patrons. The top of the hostess's head only went up to his chest. And the fitted doublet he wore relayed the hulking mass underneath the finely tailored material.

The woman asked for a table on the patio so that they could dine with a view of the water. They were led outside onto the wooden patio. Torches illuminated the evening with flickering light, and candles lined the railing. On the table was a small floral centerpiece in a glass vase. As soon as the waiter left them to go fetch their champagne, Kozin picked at the flowers.

"Is this the salad appetizer?" he joked.

Cayessa rolled her eyes as she wafted out the linen napkin and draped it over her lap. "You are so primitive," she groaned. "Elbows off the table, Kozin."

"What's wrong with my elbows being on here?" Kozin countered, though he obeyed. "And why couldn't have we gone to one of the taverns, Cay? Stronger drinks and heartier food."

"For the same reason a Skelligan brute ought to take a bath every now and then," Cayessa answered with a smirk. "It does you good to be clean."

"There are a lot of taverns that are actually quite nice."

"Oh, but I'd have to wear something else to a tavern," Cayessa pointed out. She raised her shoulders and pushed her arms inward, accentuating the cleavage that her gown so generously exposed. She noticed how the witcher's gaze was immediately drawn to it. "And I quite like this dress."

"You do look nice in it."

Cayessa scoffed lightly, letting her shoulders drop. " _Just_ nice?" At that moment, the waiter returned with the champagne, two glass flutes, and an ice bucket. He tilted the bottle to show Kozin the label. There was an awkward pause, and then the witcher gave an unsure nod. Immediately, the foil was broken and the cork popped out. Golden liquid lapped gently against the clear sides of the flute as the waiter poured the sparkling wine. Cayessa noticed how Kozin was staring at her. Intrigued, she peered into his head.

 _You don't just look nice_ , he was thinking. _You look ravishing. Irresistible. If we were alone—just the two of us here—I'd take you on this very table._ His thoughts, coupled with his sultry gaze, roused something between the sorceress's thighs. Cayessa quickly crossed one leg over the other and lifted her chin as the waiter finished pouring and tucked the bottle into the ice bucket. He then left the pair to enjoy their drinks and peruse the menu.

Cayessa cleared her throat as she lowered her eyes and opened the leather-bound menu. "Something bothering you?" she heard Kozin ask lightly.

"Of course not," the sorceress replied just as casually. "Why would I be troubled in the presence of such lovely, dignified company?"

Kozin reached up and pulled at his collar. Cayessa's eyes flickered up to him. "Don't do that," she scolded. "You'll stretch it out."

"It's a bit tight around the neck anyway," the witcher muttered.

Cayessa lowered her menu and rolled her eyes. "That's how it's _supposed_ to be." She gestured towards his untouched menu. "Have you even looked at it, yet?"

"Was too busy getting an eyeful of something else," Kozin admitted devilishly before picking up the glossy leather. Cayessa watched his eyes glide cluelessly over the menu. "What are any of these? Freshwater clams over carrot salad? _Carrot salad?_ "

"I know, I know. Wouldn't even feed a man. You could always get something else to go with it."

"Look at these prices, Cay."

"I hear the clams are hand-dived for from this very lake," Cayessa said, nodding her head towards the water.

"Fuck, I'd rather go diving for my own clams."

Cayess scowled, glancing towards the other tables. "Kozin!"

"Sorry, Cay. I'll be a good boy."

"Good," Cayessa purred, lowering her eyes. She peered at the witcher through her lashes. "Because good boys get rewards."

"What kind?" Kozin asked with a crooked grin.

Cayessa closed the menu and leaned back. Uncrossing her legs, she responded, "You'll see."

* * *

"Can I try?" he heard her murmur as he took another drag. The pleasant burn tickled his throat.

Kozin took the pipe from his lips. "It packs a punch, Cay. Could burn right through your lungs."

"Oh, you're no fun," the sorceress sighed. She pushed herself up from the propped pillows, stretching her face up to his. Kozin turned his head to look at her. He kept his arm around her and slid his hand down her bare back. "Fine," she purred, moving her face closer to his. "I guess I'll have to taste it from you instead." Kozin tilted his head back as the sorceress pushed her lips onto his. His hand glided up her back.

When they parted, Cayessa nestled against his side. Kozin tucked the pipe between his teeth and used his free hand to pull the covers up to her waist. The small circles she massaged into his chest felt amazing.

"You've got so much hair," Cayessa mused, running a flat hand across his chest. "There must've been an actual bear somewhere in your ancestry."

Kozin blew another neat stream of smoke through narrowed lips. "Hmm," he hummed. "Maybe." His hand came further around her back and followed the curve of her waist. "You tired, Cay?"

"A little," Cayessa admitted. Resting a cheek against his chest, she smiled up at him. "You wore me out."

Hearing that pleased him. With a satisfactory grin, Kozin let out his last puff of smoke and set the pipe onto the nightstand. Then he turned back to Cayessa and wrapped both arms around her. The sorceress snuggled against his chest. "Good night, Kozin," she murmured into his skin. Kozin ducked his head down and kissed the top of her head.

Cayessa fell asleep quickly. Luckily for Kozin, she was a heavy sleeper, so he could gently roll her out of his arms without her stirring. He swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a moment, listening to the woman's deep, quiet breathing. Then, Kozin stood. He found his trousers discarded by the lounge chair and pulled them back on. Casting one last glance at the still figure on the bed, the witcher descended the steps to the ground floor. He lit a nearby candle sconce with Igni and wandered over to the large wooden desk.

Immediately, Kozin's eyes fell on one of the drawers. He pulled it open and found the small, bound journal. Sweet lavender perfume wafted from its pages. Kozin reached for it, and then hesitated. Then, in a sudden rush, he snatched the journal.

"Good even—!"

"Shut up!" Kozin hissed.

The enchanted journal paused, and then began again in a softer voice, "Good evening, Cayessa! Speak the password to—."

"To unlock your covers, I know!" Kozin growled. "Now shut the fuck up." He fell silent to listen. Upstairs, Cayessa didn't stir. Pulling the chair, the _Toussainti_ chair, away from the desk, Kozin sat down and stared hard down at the journal. The night before, he had tried every name, every phrase, he could think of that Cayessa might've used. But after a few guesses, the journal had begun to suspiciously inquire why "Cayessa" had so much trouble unlocking her own book, which prompted him to give in for the night.

"A hint?" Kozin asked.

"You do not need a hint."

The witcher grunted. "You don't know that."

Then came the familiar suspicious tone as the enchanted voice inquired, "Cayessa, is that really you?" Quickly, Kozin threw the journal onto the desk and lowered his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. He really, _really_ wanted to see what was in the journal. Why? Because it was Cayessa's, and he was dead curious on what kind of innermost thoughts she had spilled onto its pages.

 _Just as intrusive as she is,_ Kozin thought to himself. In a way, he used that as justification.

The journal took an hour to reset, and then he was at it again. And again, the voice became suspicious. Kozin was glad that he was only dealing with a simple spell and not something with any degree of sentience.

Morning would come in a few hours. As exhausted as Cayessa was, she was likely to rise after the sun. That still gave him the chance for a few tries. Kozin dragged his fingers wearily across his brow as he peered up at the journal. Perhaps the password was something he never heard of. The name of someone he'd never met… another man.

"Ah, kitten," he groaned, dipping his head down to rub his tired eyes. A soft thump answered him, and he raised his face.

The damned thing had opened. The witcher paused, and then reached forward to slide the journal towards him. The first page held the insignia of Vintrica—a dragon with its wings flared out behind a mountain. He flipped through the first few pages. They were all covered in Cayessa's neat handwriting. Kozin picked up the book and began to read.

Most of it was about work—details of diseases and symptoms she had encountered. Remedies. Recipes for bathing oils and perfumes. Some entries went on angry tirades about difficult patients, frustrating people, and the angry crowds that would chase her away. But despite the amount of people accusing her of being a seductress, it seemed Cayessa was very careful of choosing single men. And she was picky—most of her encounters with eager potential flings ended with rejection. In the recorded instances they didn't, Kozin's eyes slowed down and he would bring the journal closer.

 _He was charming. A little too charming, and I should have taken that as a red flag,_ one entry said. _Was too eager to bed me and kept assuring to me over and over again that he was unwed. A little peek into his head told me otherwise. I so wanted to hex that stupid oaf, but I know throwing around spells willy nilly is a bad idea. I remember what Theila said about people being scared of magic users. I've seen enough hate to know that to be true. I guess it's just like what he told me about witchers. Sorceresses don't fare much better, it seems._

Further into the journal, Kozin found himself concentrating on another entry. _He's sweet, but I fear he may have fallen for me. Kept hinting at marriage last night, but I was just waiting for him to fall asleep. Marry a sorceress? Maybe he's gotten into my supply of herbs._

Kozin leaned forward and rested an elbow on the table as he continued to read. _Pascal came to visit me today. He was in his humanoid form, as that's the only way he can fit into my tower without smashing it to bits. As a dragon, he's beautiful, but his humanoid form is a little repulsive. I'll not ever tell him that because he is a dear friend. We talked for a while. He asked me about my patients. I asked him if he'd found a lady dragon friend yet, but I don't think he appreciated the joke. I think I'll keep an eye out for any she-dragons for him._

 _Ugh! Theila asked me if I wanted to come to the Bear keep in Skellige with her for the winter. She could not have asked for anything worse. I think she thought I wanted to see him again. I just told her to bring Brielle instead—he seems to prefer her as a bed warmer anyway. You know what? I quite like Torben. I don't think I'll ever marry him, but I don't mind having his companionship for the next few nights. I'm sure he won't either._

There were more entries about Cayessa's work. Some were heartwarming recollections of working with children. Others were bittersweet, as the sorceress had eased the last moments of the elderly. Others were detailed descriptions of ugly diseases—ones that caused excessive bleeding or horrible boils. There were diagrams of herbs and ingredients that listed out their properties. Kozin's eyes skimmed quickly over them. Then he approached the end of the entries and read the latest one. This one had been written just a few days ago, after the two of them had started traveling together.

 _At first I kept expecting each night to be our last, but he's always still there in the morning. We've visited three cities across Redania now. Yesterday, we found some old ruins in a valley and spontaneously decided to explore it. A date, maybe? A bizarre one, definitely. There were some monsters, but he quickly took care of them. Then he grabbed random parts off of their corpses! He told me what the monsters were called, but I can't remember. They were ugly, and they crawled. He found an old sword and kept it. I teased him about being a hoarder. He backed me into a corner, and I swear he would have had us do it right there if I hadn't stopped him! The nerve of him! We were in a dusty, crumbling building with a few monster corpses just a short distance away! But usually after we come back to my tower, and after I get him to rinse off all that sweat and dirt he always accumulates, the story is quite different. He's such a brute, but that is what's so wonderful about him._

 _I really love him. I'm trying not to look into his mind anymore because that annoys him, but I think he loves me too._

 _He asked me to spend the winter with him. I told him I couldn't—winter is the busiest time for me. Cold weakens the immune system. But he had this look in his eyes like he didn't believe me. I'm sure he still thinks I don't trust him, because then he brought up Brielle. I tried brushing it off. But, to be honest, thinking about it still hurts. He tried explaining, but it didn't make sense. He said he had fallen in love with me so he slept with her. That doesn't make sense at all! Anyway, talking about it made me angry, which didn't help with my argument. Now he definitely thinks I'm still hung up on it. He's so dumb._

 _I can't stay mad at him though. He kisses me until I can't breathe, and I can't believe he still has that effect on me. We're heading to Vizima in a few days. I need to get him a doublet and some breeches, because he's got nothing suitable to wear for the Trade Quarter. I might get a new dress myself, because why not? We'll see._

Kozin leaned back, still holding the open journal in his hand. He pressed the side of his finger against his lips as he reread the last entry. _I really love him_. The witcher shut the journal and returned it to its drawer. Then he returned upstairs. Cayessa still didn't wake up when he slipped under the covers next to her. He fought against the longing to kiss her awake, and told himself that morning was not so far away.

* * *

As expected, he returned to the Bear keep alone that winter. Kozin had let his lips linger on hers for a bit longer than usual on that shore. Then he had led his horse onto the boat. Wind pushed the sails, and he watched her disappear into the horizon. Kozin knew this winter was going to be a long one.

As spring approached, the ice hadn't quite yet melted when the witcher had the bow of his boat cutting through the cold slurry. Such was how it was for the next few years. Some seasons were spent entirely with the golden-haired sorceress. Other times, they remained apart. Eventually, Andryk and Oslan both had the chance to meet her. Upon seeing her, Andryk had turned to Kozin and admitted that he thought the black-haired witcher had simply made up the story of having a sorceress as a lover. Kozin had expressed his displeasure with a smack to Andryk's head.

Oddly enough, Cayessa became immediately enamored with Aegis. She rubbed the dog's face and cooed to her until the pup became so excited, she vomited a huge blob of mucus. Cayessa quickly jumped back with a yip before the slime could hit her shoes.

"Aye, she does that," Andryk told her.

One year, an entire season had gone by without Kozin seeing one glimpse of her. After 30 years, Cayessa was on the verge of earning her title as Magus of Restoration. Instead, he spent half the season with Andryk on the Continent. Oslan had chosen to stay on An Skellig this year. And then, as usual, they went home when the air turned cold.

Theila arrived alone to the keep. However, she brought with her the news that Cayessa had become a Magus and a letter to deliver to Kozin. The heavily perfumed envelope was sealed with a blot of wax. That evening, Kozin made the mistake of opening that letter in the middle of the very crowded dining hall.

The letter was enchanted. He discovered this as soon as he pried the wax loose. As soon as it popped open, a very loud female voice moaned sensually. Kozin froze. Heat rushed to his face when he realized that he recognized that moan.

Andryk and Oslan looked up from their game of gwent. All eyes were pointed in his direction. "What was that?" Andryk asked.

"Ko, was that you?"

"Damn, Ko!" Andryk chortled. "Didn't know you could sound so sexy."

Kozin mumbled under his breath as he swung his leg over the bench and quickly scurried out of the hall. In the shelter of his room, he took Cayessa's letter out and began to read.

 _To my dearest Skelligan brute—_

 _Guess who is now a Magus of Vintrica? When next we meet, you better treat me accordingly. I expect a LOT of pampering. But apparently, as Magus, I'm expected to attend a bunch of boring meetings now. Maybe I made the wrong choice? No, I'm only joking. Oh, and don't think I haven't noticed that a nosy little rat has gone through my journal. I don't think you need me to tell you that it's RUDE._

 _But, on a more serious note, I'm a little sad that I haven't seen you all year. Come springtime, you know where to find me. I miss watching you run around, stuffing monster parts into your pockets. I also need a witcher to help me with my research on kikimore venom. But mostly, I just miss you._

 _All my love,_

 _Your kitten._

With a chuckle, Kozin set the letter aside. He kicked his boots off, sat back on the bed, and took out his pipe. Leave it to Cayessa to enchant a letter like that. Though, now in the privacy of his own room, he wouldn't have minded hearing it again.

* * *

Undevar knew there was a problem the moment he glimpsed the boy's face. It was an especially cold winter, which worried the grandmaster even more.

He stopped by the railing, resting a hand on the bannister as he watched the pair ascend the stairs to their room. Oslan stepped up at a normal pace, and then paused to look back. Lagging behind him, Arda's grip on the bannister was tight as she strenuously climbed the steps. "Leannan," Oslan said, descending the steps. He placed a hand on the woman's back.

"I'm okay," she told him. Undevar heard how breathless she was. Still, her husband remained where he was and helped her up the steps. She was incredibly weak. Undevar lowered his eyes and thought for moment. Arda was somewhere in her late fifties now. But she was a Skelliger, and her hardiness had long kept her back strong.

Age showed clear on her features. Gray had invaded her dark hair. Time had stolen the youthfulness of her face and etched lines around her eyes and mouth. The man next to her, however, looked nearly identical to the way he had been on their wedding day. But the way he planted a soft kiss on her temple as they slowly climbed the steps together made it clear that he was blind to the affects of time.

Undevar had seen Arda last winter. Her strength had not been sapped like this. Senility did not claim the body as quickly as this, especially among the people of the isles. Even though Oslan had said nothing of it, Undevar knew Arda was ill.

"All right, lassie?" the grandmaster asked as the pair passed him.

Arda smiled at him. "Aye, thank ye." Undevar looked down at the floor as he listened to her haggard breathing.

* * *

 _Lie awake, stroke your face_

 _Run my hands across your battle scars_

 _Undo your chains, and throw me the key_

 _You are the person no one else could be_

 _Rest your head; the fighting is over_

 _Who said you had to take the world on your shoulders?_

"Hold Your Head up"—Martha Bean & Shanks Mansell


	48. Chapter 48 - Smoke in the Sky

_**Summer classes. That's what happened. Don't worry, I'm back from the dead.**_

* * *

He didn't know why she kept her head tilted up like that. It made the woman peer down past her nose at him. Her lips were parted, and Kozin could hear the slow breaths she made as she concentrated. One hand came to his jaw and turned his head a minute degree as she angled his ear towards her. The hand left his face, and Kozin felt it pinch the bottom of his earlobe and pull it down.

"Here comes the needle," the woman warned. "Keep still."

Kozin felt the sensation of the needle piercing his right earlobe, followed by the burning pain that quickly grew in intensity.

Immediately, the woman retracted the needle. The hook of a stone earring replaced it. When the woman turned away to set her needle aside, Kozin lifted a hand to gingerly touch his red-hot ear. She caught it and pulled it away. "Don't touch," she scolded. The woman held out a hand mirror in front of the witcher to let him observe the new piercing. "Beautiful stone," she noted. "You sure you don't want another to match it?"

"Don't think anything could match this kind of rock," Kozin replied, angling his head to get a good look. The stone was about the size of a pea—jet black with milky white tendrils rising through the middle like pillars of smoke. It dangled right below his ear.

"I see you're going for an eccentric look," the woman said. "If you're happy with how it looks, we're done. Judging by your other piercings, you know the routine. Keep it in for at least a month, and be sure to wiggle it every now and then." She thanked Kozin for his business, and the witcher left the parlor with his earlobe still throbbing.

If only the woman had known that she'd attached a magic relic to her client's body. Kozin reached up and idly tapped the earring, letting it dangle underneath his ear. Its sister stone was bound in a bracelet to a certain sorceress's wrist.

The speaking stones were activated by a simple spell that Cayessa had taught Kozin, though to be honest the Bear had a bit of trouble learning it at first. The relics were only powerful enough to transmit a single, short thought at a time, but it was enough for light conversation. They seemed damned useful, especially for those without megascopes or telemancy in hand. Kozin had asked Cayessa why speaking stones weren't more widespread.

"Only certain stones have the proper make up to be enchanted into speaking stones," the golden-haired sorceress had answered. "And those stones are hard to find—over-harvesting by ancient mages has made enchantable stones a rarity. I think the only documented deposit remaining to this day is atop Sansira's Spire. The effort of getting these stones, which don't even have a tenth of the communicable capacity of a megascope crystal, isn't worth it. Besides, it's ancient technology and most mages don't use them out of pride."

Kozin had then inquired how Cayessa had managed to get this pair, and the sorceress sheepishly admitted she acquired them through a black market.

Most of the time the thoughts transmitted through the stones were short little updates. Cayessa complained about how bored she was at a Magi meeting or interesting little tidbits she discovered through her work. Other times she'd send him the crazy rumors she'd hear about witchers—Kozin's favorite was from an insanely jealous drunkard saying that the mutations altered the chemical composition of a witcher's semen to one similar to fisstech, which was why women acted like complete whores around witchers.

 _I guess I'm a raging junkie_ , was the cheeky comment Cayessa followed that up with.

Kozin wasn't as open to sharing, mainly because he wasn't used to it. Often he would send a question Cayessa's way about some strange spell or rune he'd encounter in ancient ruins, to which Cayessa would usually reply that she didn't know because she "didn't deal with old stuff."

The years passed smoothly. The near-death experiences were at an all-time low for Kozin. He didn't realize something was wrong until that fateful winter came and mirrored one that had occurred several years before.

A letter had come in his absence. An apology to his brothers. He wasn't going to stay at the keep this winter. He was staying with his wife instead.

When Kozin finished the letter, he handed it back to the grandmaster to read. Undevar's eyes skimmed quickly over the message. The letter was innocent enough, but the grandmaster's brow furrowed. "It's okay," Kozin said. He found it ironic that the assurance was coming out of his mouth this time. "It's his choice."

"Aye, and we'll see him when the season starts," Andryk added.

Undevar shook his head slowly. Kozin and Andryk looked at each other. Kozin watched the grayed witcher raise a hand to the letter and pass his fingers over the paper's surface. He returned it to Kozin for him to do the same. Running his hand over the words, Kozin felt the heavy indents made from a pen pressed by a distressed hand.

"Go to him," Undevar told them in a quiet voice. "Quickly."

The grandmaster's sense of urgency was not lost on the two men. In a matter of hours, the bow was cutting through cold water. Icy wind grazed their faces like fangs. Andryk looked up at the dark clouds that promised sleet. He had one arm around Aegis, who nestled against the witcher's side to hide from the biting wind. Kozin kept his arms crossed over his stomach, tucking his numb hands against his sides. His amber eyes didn't see the dark clouds or the gray water. Instead, all he could see was the thin line of thread dangling in front of him, kept taut by some invisible force. Quick, hushed words were spoken as though uttering a prayer.

 _These things I have shown you are truths. Wait for your fears to come true._

"Ko?"

He gave a few quick blinks and looked up. Near the bow of the boat, Andryk was looking back at him.

"Didn't hear you," Kozin admitted. "Say it again, mate."

"What are we gonna do when we get there?" Andryk asked.

Kozin allowed his eyes to sweep over the rushing water. "Only thing we can do," he answered. "Be there." Andryk looked back out to the bow.

"Seems too soon," he heard the red-haired witcher mutter.

Night had fallen by the time they reached An Skellig. They docked the boat at Urialla's Harbor and traveled to Oslan's home on foot. Cold seized the darkened air. Puffs of white drifted in front of their faces as they walked in solemn silence. Aegis trotted along the beach ahead of them.

Voices drifted from the house as they approached. Kozin slowed and held an arm out in front of Andryk to stop him. They listened.

"—beyond what I can do," a man said.

"What do you mean?" It pained Kozin to hear how shattered Oslan sounded. "I-it's just a sickness, isn't it? Can't you—."

"Sit down, Oslan," the man replied. "Take a deep breath."

Andryk pushed Kozin's arm out of the way and headed towards the house. Upon reaching it, he knocked. Kozin heard a chair scrape. Light cut through the frigid night as the door opened.

He didn't say anything at first, which worried Kozin. Then, in a small voice, Oslan said, "Now isn't a good time."

"That's why we're here," Kozin said. The blond witcher was silent. "You don't have to go through this alone."

Oslan shook his head. "No, she's not… She's fine. It's just a passing bug." The doubt was clear in his amber eyes. Oslan stepped back from the door. "Come out of the cold, both of you," he sighed.

The cozy interior of the home was one that Kozin had stepped into many times, but this time it was different. The atmosphere was somber—it even seemed to gray the walls. Immediately, Aegis weaved past Oslan and disappeared around the corner. Andryk took a step to follow her, but Oslan quickly caught him by the shoulder.

"She's tired," he said. "Let her sleep."

One glance at his brother told Kozin that it wasn't just Arda. Worry and stress had painted dark rings under her husband's eyes. A question sat on Kozin's tongue, but he held it back. Looking towards where Aegis had disappeared, Kozin asked, "Who else is here?"

"A friend," Oslan answered. Kozin looked back at him, and the blond witcher continued, "A druid I met a long time ago—during my first season. His name is Jannik."

"What's a druid doin' here?" Andryk blurted out.

Oslan paused. "Arda hasn't been feeling well," he admitted. Quickly, he added, "But it's nothing too serious. Probably just from the cold. She's not as young as… well, she used to be." Kozin watched Oslan carefully as he spoke. He kept his eyes low, concentrating on something close to the ground as though there was something in the room he was too afraid to look at.

Kozin bumped his hand against Andryk's arm. "Let's go," he told him. "Give them some space for the night."

"You can stay," Oslan interjected. "I can lay out some bedroll by the fire."

"Don't be radge, Os," Kozin snorted. "There's an inn right in viewing distance from the window."

"I… suppose."

"We'll be back in the morning."

"Aye. And thanks for coming to see me."

They waited until they were safe behind the walls of the inn, out of range of their brother's sharp ears, to talk. Kozin had removed his armor and gear and left them in his room. He leaned against the wall of Andryk's room. The red-haired witcher sat on the edge of his bed. One elbow was propped on his knee. His other hand rested motionless on Aegis's scruff as she lay curled next to him. Neither witcher looked at the other.

"He's lyin' te us," Andryk said, the first to break the silence.

"He's lying to himself," Kozin corrected. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andryk look up at him.

"Thought he knew," Andryk said. "With the letter and callin' that druid…"

"Some part of him knows. The rest—the majority of him—is too afraid to accept it."

"Poor bastard."

"We all knew this would come," Kozin said.

Andryk ducked his head down. "How old is she?" he wondered out loud. "Gettin' near 60, but not there yet." He glanced at Aegis, who lifted her head. "Os said 'passin' bug,' meanin' the lass is sick. Don't know too much about disease, but I know it's not kind te the old."

As he listened to Andryk, Kozin suddenly had an idea. He wondered if he ought to go through with it. The inevitable was on their doorstep, and he'd be as much a fool as Oslan if he tried to prevent it.

But the memory of his brother's eyes—the pain and fear within them—pushed him. Kozin pushed himself off the wall. "I'll be right back," he said. As he left the room, he reached up and touched the stone dangling from his ear. Andryk look down as Aegis rested her chin on his knee.

* * *

After Kozin briefed her on what to expect from her latest patient, Cayessa walked with the Bear witcher over to the house. The one who answered was Kozin's friend—Oslan, she recalled. She greeted him with a smile, but he didn't return it. Dark rings traced the underside of his cat eyes. He gazed at Cayessa knowingly.

"Os," she heard Kozin rumble. "Let's go out on a walk. Give them some space."

"Aye," Oslan replied heavily. "I… I need to step out." To Cayessa, he said, "She's in the back with Jannik—with the druid."

"Thank you," Cayessa replied as the blond witcher stepped past her. She glanced at Kozin, who gave her a nod before clasping a hand over Oslan's shoulder. The two men headed towards the beach. Cayessa turned back to the house and hitched her bag strap over her shoulder. Then, she stepped inside.

The air was perfumed with the spicy scent of herbs. Cayessa recognized a few of the smells. In the few seconds it took her to reach the bedroom, she tried diagnosing the patient based off of the herbs the druid had been using. They all seemed very generic—the kind of remedies used when one wasn't sure of the disease plaguing their patient.

When Cayessa walked into the room, she found a woman sleeping. The arranged pillows propped up her head, and her breaths rattled. Beside her sat the druid. He wasn't a wizened old man like she had expected. In fact, she could venture to say he was rather handsome… for a druid, she quickly told herself.

The druid rose to his feet. Extending a hand, he introduced himself as Jannik and asked for the sorceress's name.

"Cayessa," she replied, setting down her bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Jannik was watching her carefully.

"Lady Cayessa," he said softly. "Arda is sleeping."

"This won't wake her," Cayessa replied. "I just want to take a look myself." She glanced at the sleeping woman. She'd seen Arda only once, about 20 years ago. How different the woman looked. She had lost weight, but Cayessa could tell that it had all been lost too quickly.

She got to work—restoration spells to scout the body and pinpoint the pathogen. It wasn't hard to find. Arda's entire body was saturated with it. Cayessa withdrew her spell. She had encountered cases like this, and she began to worry.

"How often does she sleep?" the sorceress asked.

"Often," Jannik answered. "Nearly whole days, sometimes."

"Appetite?"

"Barely any." The druid sounded uncomfortable. Cayessa looked at him. He had his arms crossed and his eyes lowered to the floor. He already knew. "I don't know how to tell him," Jannik admitted. "As a witcher, a man not dragged down by age, this is his greatest fear."

Cayessa understood. It was one thing to lose a loved one, and another to face an eternity without them. Her mind drifted to Kozin—to the terrifying possibility of losing him to a witcher's fate.

The thought was brought away when the woman in bed shifted. Both the druid and sorceress looked to her. Cayessa saw Arda's eyes flutter open. Her hooded eyes stared with drowsy confusion. Cayessa lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

"Arda," she addressed softly. "It's me, Cayessa. Do you remember me?" The woman's head dipped in a weak nod. "I'm here to help."

"Ye can't 'elp me." Arda's voice was croaky and hoarse. Jannik turned to the nightstand to pour a cup of water from a pitcher. Cayessa shifted closer to her.

"Arda—."

"Me da was… sick too," Arda explained in a frail voice. "And it took 'im. Now it's… it's 'appenin' te me. I know how this will end fer me."

Cayessa shook her head. "I'm a healer, Arda."

"A healer treated Da too. Said it was too late. Said it was in 'is entire body, and they couldn't take it out." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm scared," she admitted, "for Oslan. I'm… hurting him."

"He cares very deeply about you."

"I know. I've been th'luckiest woman alive because o'him. I don't want him te be hurt. I 'ope he moves on soon."

Cayessa rested a hand over Arda's. "You can't ask that of him," she said. It was heartbreaking to see how Arda had given up, but she was right—the illness that was eating at her was beyond Cayessa's help. It had advanced to too far a stage. And this disease—it was a silent killer, undetected until people became like how Arda was now.

With her eyes still closed, Arda whispered, "I'm dying, but he won't admit it. Should I… should I 'ave him stay away?"

"No," Cayessa replied firmly. "He needs to be here. With you. Otherwise he'll never find peace." Arda's eyes opened. "And you deserve to have him with you."

The dim light reflected in Arda's glassy eyes. "I'll miss him."

Cayessa blinked and fought at the painful lump in her throat. "I know," she said softly. "I'll go get him now."

* * *

Oslan was eerily quiet as Cayessa explained it all to him. Kozin stood by, slightly on edge. He had half-expected Oslan to react angrily when Cayessa informed him that his wife couldn't be treated. Instead, his brother remained in his defeated silence.

"What can I do?" Oslan asked when Cayessa had finished. It sounded like a plea.

"Be there for her," the sorceress answered. "She knows what's happening to her, but she's still scared."

Oslan rose heavily to his feet. Before he passed her, Cayessa added, "Hearing is the last thing to go, Oslan. Until her last breath, she'll be able to hear you." He nodded and went to the bedroom. Cayessa followed him, prepared to administer the spells that would ease the passing. Moments later, Jannik stepped out to where the rest waited. Kozin looked over to Andryk. When their eyes met, the black-haired witcher nodded towards the door. The two men stepped out into the frigid air. It was still dark, but morning was approaching.

Even with the walls between them, Kozin could still hear the creak of the mattress as Oslan sat on it. "Leannan," he greeted her. Kozin could hear every word. Oslan told Arda he wasn't going to leave her. They spoke softly. Arda asked Oslan what he was going to do after she was gone. He didn't answer.

She told him not to think too much of her. He still had so much of his life to live without being anchored down. Oslan shushed her gently.

"That comes later, leannan," he told her. "Right now, we still have each other. Let me stay in this moment."

Kozin took a heavy breath. He reached down for his pipe and began filling it. Beside him, Andryk crossed his arms.

"Fuck," the red-haired witcher cursed softly. "Ko, should he be on his own in there?"

"Yes," Kozin stated, igniting his pipe. To be honest, he wouldn't have wanted to go back inside anyway. "Let him be alone for now. We'll be here when it's over."

Red began to seep over the horizon as the sun rose. Kozin felt a glimmer of hope as he watched it. This event was not at all as Gaunter had shown him. Oslan wasn't going to be alone through it. Arda's passing was no longer something he was denying until the end.

Kozin knew he couldn't avoid his fears, but maybe he had the power to change them.

Andryk shifted. He uncrossed his arms, and then crossed them again. "I'd be lyin' out o'me arse if I said I didn't know how it felt," he growled under his breath. Kozin kept his eyes on the sunrise as he listened. "Ye picked smart, Ko. Ye got one that could even outlive ye." Andryk shook his head and turned away, still mumbling under breath. Something told Kozin he was trying to drown the noise out with his own voice.

He took a deep drag, desperately trying to seek familiar comfort in the bitter burn. But it was as if all his senses had dulled except for his hearing—he could hear Arda's muted heart beat. He could hear it growing slower.

Kozin took another drag. His eyes narrowed as he listened to the failing tempo. Oslan was the only one still softly whispering. There was no reciprocating voice anymore.

It wouldn't be long, Kozin knew.

The door behind them opened. Kozin glanced back as the druid stepped out. Jannik looked tired. Everyone was.

"I saw them through their wedding," Jannik said quietly. "I was there when their life together started. And here I am as it ends. I suppose that is the theme to all life, isn't it? A beginning and an end."

"Witchers don't get married," Kozin replied heavily, "for this very reason."

"Is it not a mistake worth making?"

"You ask at a bad time," Kozin said. The beats were so slow. It would be any second now.

"Can she still hear me?" Oslan asked.

"Yes," Cayessa answered. "Now is your last chance, Oslan."

Kozin lowered his eyes. He heard Oslan's last words to her. "Some day, we'll see each other again, leannan. I love you."

There were no heartbeats after his words ended. Jannik dipped his head down and murmured something brief in Elder. A burdened silence followed.

Then, Cayessa said gently, "Oslan—."

"I'm okay," he replied curtly.

"Do you need to be alone?"

"I… I do."

Kozin turned and headed back into the house when he heard her steps. He had just walked past the front door when she appeared. Now that she was out of Oslan's sight, the sorceress wore her true despair on her face. She stopped when she saw Kozin.

Cayessa's lips pressed into a tight line. Tears brimmed her eyes. Kozin held his arms out for her, and she rushed into them. "It doesn't get any easier," she whispered into his chest.

"I'm proud of you," the witcher told her gently. Cayessa pulled in a shaky breath.

"He needs a moment," she said quietly. "But then you and Andryk need to be there for him."

"I know," Kozin replied. With an arm wrapped around her, he led Cayessa to the table by the window. There were two chairs.

He sat down across from Cayessa. The sorceress leaned her head against her hand and traced the table's grain with the other. They waited.

Then Kozin stood. He went over to the door. Cold air blasted him as he opened it and beckoned Andryk over. The two of them walked to the bedroom.

Morning light slipped through the window, pulling the shadow of the lone man sitting on the side of the bed. His arms were wrapped tightly around her. His eyes were hollow and stared at nothing.

"Os." There was a blink—a flicker of life. "Come on, Os. It's time."

Oslan gingerly lowered her, but wouldn't let her go. "I can't feel anything," he said.

"That's normal," Andryk said. Kozin looked at him. "Perfectly normal. Pretty soon, mate, ye'll be wishin' ye couldn't feel a thing."

"Os," Kozin repeated.

"I know," Oslan said quickly. "I know… We have to send her off properly." It sounded as though he were talking to himself.

He showed no emotion aside from hollow stoniness. There was no emotion as he carried her out into the cold morning. No emotion when the funeral pyre was set alight. No emotion as the smoke rose high into the clear sky.

Andryk and Kozin had agreed that they ought to take Oslan back to the Bear keep for the remainder of the winter. But Oslan wasn't ready to leave yet. Kozin looked over to the solitary figure kneeling before a grave mound. Arda's remains had been buried in the same grounds that her father rested in, as well as the ones she had once known who had passed before her.

Kozin clapped a hand over Andryk's shoulder as he passed him and walked towards Oslan. There, he crouched beside his brother and shared in the silence between them.

Then, Oslan said, "I don't regret a thing. Not a thing."

"And you shouldn't," Kozin replied.

Oslan said nothing else on their way back to the keep. As their boat glided through the water, he looked back at the island that shrank in their wake. A few minutes later, it was gone.

Undevar was already waiting for them on the shore. Oslan wouldn't meet the grandmaster's eyes. When the grayed witcher stepped forward, Oslan made to walk around him, mumbling, "I'm okay, Grandmaster. I'm okay." Undevar caught him and pulled him to his chest.

It was then that Oslan, small in his grandmaster's arms, cried.

* * *

 _We were drawn from weeds_

 _We were brave like soldiers_

 _Falling down under the pale moonlight_

 _You were holding to me_

 _Like someone broken_

 _And I couldn't tell you, but I'm telling you now_

 _Just let me hold you while you're falling apart_

"Ever the Same"—Rob Thomas

* * *

 _ **Addendum: "**_ _ **This story is going to have a drastically different tone than the other story in that it is much less tragic." Oh no, why is my nose growing!?**_


	49. Chapter 49 - Not With a Whimper

_**VerverG - You made my day, you really did. Thank you.**_

 _ **Also, I've received some inquiries about past covers. I realized it's unfair to people who have started reading this story after the older covers have been switched out and never got to see them. Fear not! I've created an Instagram account where all covers, plus additional story-related artwork, can be found. Just search for the user 'wewereinvincibleart' on IG.**_

 _ **For those of you without IG accounts, you can type into the address bar: instagram dot com forwardslash wewereinvincibleart. Replace the dot and forwardslash with the actual characters.**_

* * *

He was getting old. Too old. The small whittling knife in his hand scraped against the wooden block. Shavings curled, and then dropped to the ground.

It was a quiet summer's morning. It was always quiet around here now. The young ones were out, plying their trade—trying to support an old school that was already wheezing out its dying breath. Bear wouldn't die with a roar and the clash of metal. It was succumbing to the poison of time.

Undevar thought of the other schools. He wondered how much better they fared. Then again, they didn't have clans of warmongers snarling at them, incited by generations of misguided witchers that had been injected with shameful pride.

 _The mistakes are not mine, but they are mine to bear_ , Undevar reminded himself. The whittling knife slipped and came dangerously close to topping off his finger. Damn, he shouldn't have let his mind wander too far.

How old was he now? Closing in on nearly five centuries. There were witchers still who were far more ancient than he. So why did he feel so tired?

It wasn't physical age that was weighing him down, he realized. It was the feeling of obsolescence. The world was moving on. New civilizations on the Continent were springing up, and more and more Bear witchers were migrating there. But Undevar was stuck here—prisoner to his own keep.

Theila knew. Last winter, she had even brought up the subject of retiring. There were wonderful estates in Toussaint that overlooked the lake. She had told him this with a glimmer in her eyes and a hand rested over his arm.

Undevar quite liked the idea of settling in that fair, sunny country with the sorceress. He daydreamed of horse breeding—producing the finest steeds. Fit for witchers. But then he became aware that he was only daydreaming. Theila didn't want to retire—he knew that. She was only considering it for his sake.

"The keep needs its grandmaster," he insisted.

"You've already done all you can for the keep. Think about yourself for once." He was stubborn, and she grew irate.

Then, finally, she had one last suggestion. "We can go witchering," she told him. It was a last ditch effort. "Like we used to, remember? We can travel the world again."

Undevar drove in the final nail. "That witcher is gone, Theila," he had told her. "After a century, you return to Skellige thinking you could still find him. You're a fool for believing that."

He had seen the pain flash across her olive eyes, and immediately regretted his words. But it was too late to take them back. "I didn't come here looking for him," she said tightly. "I came back for you." That was the last thing she said to him that winter. The next day, she had gone.

The whittling knife paused when Undevar heard footsteps approach him. Soft, tentative steps—very unlike the gait Demir usually walked with. Undevar's eyes glanced up as the dwarf stopped in front of him. Demir hesitated.

"What's on your mind?" Undevar prompted.

"Well, Grandmaster, see… the thing is," Demir began uneasily. "I haven't seen me sister in a while. Got a letter a few months ago saying she has a babe now. And I got to thinking…"

"I understand, Demir," Undevar said, looking at the jagged block in his hand. "Family is important. You may go, and are welcomed back any time should you choose to return."

"It was just… seeing how this place has—."

"I said you may go," Undevar interrupted.

Demir fell silent. Then, he said, "Thank you, Grandmaster. I'll come back."

"Safe travels, Demir." So even the dwarf was leaving. Undevar examined the block in his hand. A face had emerged from the carved wood. It was that of a younger man—someone who had once traveled the world freely. It was the face Theila had come back to the isles for. Undevar wondered why he had tried to carve a face he no longer remembered. The block fell heavily into the grass at his feet. Undevar stabbed the whittling knife into the bench seat beside him and stood.

He wandered over to the infirmary that was mostly empty save for a few beds that were occupied with witchers too grievously wounded to go out this season. Normally Roffe saw to them—he and the remaining housekeepers were the last pulse in the keep, though Undevar wondered how long it would take before they disappeared too.

A housekeeper was redressing one of the witcher's wounds. Undevar came over. "Lass, what's your name?" he asked.

The small woman looked up in surprise. Quickly, she lowered her eyes to the bandages and answered. "Nora."

"Nora," Undevar repeated. He glanced down at the wounded witcher, placing a hand gently over his shoulder before turning away. He left the infirmary and made his way slowly to the grandmaster's wing. The old witcher thought of the Bears currently off the island—wondering with deep-seated worry which ones would be lost this season.

His mind settled on one witcher in particular—one that had only just recently returned to the Path. Oslan had spent nearly forty years living a domestic life, and Undevar had been beside himself with dread when the boy had picked his swords back up. This year was his sixth season as a renewed witcher. He seemed to manage just fine. That was what the grandmaster told himself.

Light poured softly into the study through the lattice window. Undevar's hand brushed lightly across the desk as he passed it. There was a dusty green bottle sitting deep within the recess of a shelf, hidden by shadow. Undevar took the bottle by the neck and turned it to observe its label. Light filtered green through the glass. _Vigne D'or_ —a winery in Toussaint. Designs of gold vines crept around the label. The winery owner had told him this bottle in particular needed aging. This had been a little over a century ago.

Undevar shook the bottle and watched the dark liquid swirl. He had been saving this for a special occasion, and never found the right one. Perhaps the cork would finally be popped out at that Toussainti estate. The decision had finally been made up. He planned on getting Roffe to reach Theila through his megascope tomorrow and tell her.

Crashing waves against the hull of a boat seized the grandmaster's attention. It was a sound he had grown accustomed to hearing, but this one came far too early. He quickly set the bottle back and peered through the window. Undevar spotted the dark figure and the silhouette of its sails. The door to the study swung as the grandmaster hurried through it.

Their boots dragged through the sand, kicking it up in small waves with each clumsy step. Brimir had returned. Draped across his shoulders was the arm of another Bear master—Horsemaster Ruadh—sporting a large wound in his midsection that was already bleeding through the bandages.

Undevar slowed when he saw them, and then went to support Ruadh's other side. "What happened?"

"Ambush," Brimir answered, "from one of the rotten clans. Only just managed to haul Ruadh on a boat and get here in time."

"Were you followed?"

"Nay. We had a few tails but lost them when we took a detour into siren-infested waters," Brimir answered.

Ruadh grunted when he stumbled, though the other two supported him. "Didn't know it had gotten this bad," he groaned. "Had them spring at me the second they saw my Bear head."

Heads turned and the wounded younger witchers attempted to sit up as their horsemaster limped into the infirmary. Ruadh cursed as he lowered himself onto the cot. "Fucker scored me good," he coughed. Footsteps hurried from the hall, and Roffe hurried in. He took one glance down at Ruadh, and then waved a housekeeper away. "Bandages and disinfectants! Go, go!" he ordered urgently. He gingerly peeled away the old bandages, causing Ruadh to flinch. "Talk to me," the mage said.

As the horsemaster explained what had happened to him, Undevar finally noticed that Brimir himself had not gone unscathed. When the grandmaster pointed it out, Brimir only shook his head.

"Nothing dire. Don't go wasting herbs on me," he replied. Then, in quieter voice, he added, "Didn't realize it had gotten this bad either." His gaze swept around the infirmary.

Undevar turned away, fear for the masters bubbling dark and heavy in his gut. They too had been witchers who withstood Valdre's influence. No, Undevar could even say they had been better men than he. While he had still been trapped in Valdre's shadow, they had left Skellige to remain on the Continent, opting to stay away even during the winters. Galon had stayed with dwarves in their mountain fortress. Brimir had wintered a few times with the Griffon witchers.

"Grandmaster." Brimir's voice drew Undevar's attention. With a nod of his head, he beckoned them out of the infirmary. Undevar followed him until they had walked out of the keep. When they reached the beach, Brimir stopped. He kept his eyes on the water.

"Grandmaster," Brimir said again. Undevar braced himself, but Brimir's next words still struck him hard. "Galon is dead. Died earlier this season." He turned back to Undevar, holding a hand out. A medallion hung from it. Undevar took it, staring down at its gleaming eyes. "Went out as you'd expect," Brimir continued with a failed cheerful tone. "Judging from the blood around him, he took a few dozen men or so with him." The, the forced cheer was gone. "They just left him there."

"You sent him off?" The grandmaster's voice was heavy.

"Of course I did. It's what he deserved." Brimir took a deep breath. "That's not all, Grandmaster," he said. "He had scorch marks on him. Precise cuts. The kind that could have only been made by a witcher's blade." His words hung in the air.

Undevar shocked him by scoffing loudly. "The work of our brethren," he said icily. "So, are the isles—our home—no longer safe for us?"

"Unfortunately," Brimir replied softly. "What now?"

"Why bother asking?" Undevar grumbled. "There's nothing left to wonder over. It's been a long time since we trained witchers, Brimir."

"But the young ones—."

"The youngest are starting to scrape the underside of 70 years," Undevar said. "There's no longer any need for masters, grandmasters. Do as you wish, Brimir. As for myself—as soon as the last of the wounded are able to stand and hold a sword, I'm headed for Toussaint."

* * *

The blank paper glared accusingly up at her, as did the setting sun. Theila tapped two fingers against the desk's surface, tracing the end of the quill against her upper lip and enjoying its soft tickle as she pondered.

Report, report, report. She had the data. She had the ideas. The tough part was compiling it all into a neat, concise report. And there wasn't any time to dally—the deadline to submit papers to the Academic Journal of Elementalism was fast approaching. Theila's brow furrowed as her fingers tapped faster. Perhaps it was best to skip the introductory thesis and start on the body of the paper.

The whirr of the megascope powering up stole her attention. Theila pushed away from the desk and looked to the instrument as the crystals illuminated a fierce white glow. A wide, black and white image projected into the room.

"Theila?" It had been ages since she had seen _him_ through the projection of the megascope.

The sorceress rose to confront the face she hadn't seen since the start of winter. She'd had more than enough time to temper her anger, and now felt a pang of guilt for leaving him alone all winter.

"Undevar," she greeted. "Is something wrong?"

"No," the witcher replied. "I've been thinking about what you told me. About retiring." Her heart soared at his words. "And, well… aye, let's go to Toussaint."

"Really? That's wonderful!" Theila glanced over her shoulder. "Just give me a day or two to pack."

"Are we going? Now?"

"Why not?"

"Don't you…" Undevar gestured towards the lab behind her. "Have work to do?"

"For now it's just a report and wondering how long before Gloria organizes another Magi council," Theila replied. "And besides, I can work from Toussaint, can't I?"

Undevar didn't answer. Even through the wavy image of the megascope, Theila recognized that look in his eyes. She knew he was thinking about the last words he had spoken to her that past winter.

"Don't say anything," she said before he had a chance to get anything out. "I'll come to the keep in a week, and then we can leave when you're ready. Okay?"

"Aye, sounds like a plan."

Her heart was still fluttering even when the megascope had been shut off. They were finally leaving. For so long, the world had been hell-bent on keeping them apart. Theila turned back to her desk. Pushing the blank paper aside and went over to the closet to dig the large traveling chest out. As she pulled it from the closet, an old megascope crystal became dislodged and rolled across the floor. Theila paused to pick it up. She looked it over and, upon recognizing it, smiled fondly.

But it seemed the world was not done with them. The next day, Theila heard the message that had been broadcasted from the island. She knew it had been sent to all medallions that were linked to the island. It was a message to the witchers, a final warning:

 _The keep has been lost. Do not return._

* * *

He wondered if he had made the right decision, and if it was too late to take it back. But the memory of the joy in Theila's eyes assured him that his choice was a sound one. He looked forward to living out eternity with her.

After the conversation through the megascope, Undevar had gone back down to the infirmary to check on his witchers. He sat with Ruadh and talked about his season and the state of Skellige beyond the keep. Then they switched to a lighter topic—horse breeding. He had Ruadh give him his two crowns about the makings of a good mount.

It was during their conversation when both of them heard the whiz of something shooting quickly through the air, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass. There was a heavy thump. Undevar glanced up towards the higher level where the sounds had come from. "I'll take a look," he told Ruadh.

He saw it through the stairwell window as he ascended. Undevar stopped dead in his tracks and peered out. A boat was speeding away from the island. Despite the distance between them, the lone man in the boat seemed to know the grandmaster was there. He turned, and their eyes, both cat-like, locked. Undevar recognized him immediately. The keep was in grave danger.

"Roffe!" Undevar roared, sprinting up the steps. It was too late to chase the boat down, but maybe the mage could stop it. "Roffe!"

There was no answer. As Undevar burst into the laboratory, he saw why. Light poured into the room through the broken window. Glass was scattered across the floor.

As the new grandmaster, Undevar had personally sought out the individuals he had chosen to be the masters under him. He remembered the way the old mage had laughed before accepting the grandmaster's offer. It was an undeserved honor, Roffe had said.

The mage lay on the floor of his laboratory. A crossbow bolt had taken his life. Undevar turned slowly and found the doorway to hold onto. Then, he pulled himself out of the laboratory. The realization crept up on him as he found Brimir.

"We've been found," Undevar told him. "He killed Roffe, Brimir. It was him."

"It was…?" Brimir repeated. They both knew what that meant.

The next hour was spent in tense silence. Undevar was plagued by restlessness, unable to still his feet. He paced through the keep, lost in troubled thoughts.

Now that he had found the island, it wouldn't be long until he returned with an army behind him. Undevar had a few days at most.

Few boats were left in the dock. They were loaded with the housekeepers and injured witchers. The larders and shelves were emptied to supply them for their trip. Undevar ordered them to head straight for the Continent. They were not to come back.

There wasn't enough room on the boats for everyone. Brimir and the witchers that were healed enough to fight opted to stay behind. At sunset, the funeral pyre for Master Roffe was lit.

Nobody slept that night. The next morning, Undevar returned to the laboratory. He found the beacon—the device through which all medallions were linked. It was what funneled the illusion-cancelation spells to the witchers, but today it would serve a different purpose.

"The keep has been lost," he announced through the beacon. "Do not return." Then, he shut it off.

* * *

He heard it. So did they—Andryk and Oslan. They were told to stay away, but they refused to heed those words. Not when the keep, the place they had been raised in, was under threat of being destroyed.

But as they tried to sail home, they found that the island danced around them. "I've seen this before," Oslan said. "It's that illusion spell."

Kozin looked down at his medallion, paranoid for a second that it had somehow vanished from his neck. Words flashed into his head—once spoken by a witcher that had also found himself unable to return to his island. "He's made it clear we aren't welcomed back," Kozin repeated.

A loud voice at the other end of the boat drew him from his memories. "Well fuck! I don't care if we aren't welcomed back!" Andryk snapped, peering at the newly formed illusion. "Not meanin' any disrespect, but the grandmaster's dead out o'his mind if he's thinkin' we're goin' te hide away and let some whoresons with grudges ransack our keep!" He looked back towards the till. "Os, take us back te Faroe. Ko, ye still cozy with that sorceress?"

Kozin glared. "She's not getting involved."

"Not plannin' on puttin' that lass in the middle o'the fight," Andryk retorted. "But I'm goin' te need that magic o'hers." The bow of the boat cut a wide arc in the water as it turned.

"Theila's spell is a very old and powerful one," Oslan said. "Even if Cayessa knows how to counter it, it's going to take a while."

"She don't need te," Andryk said. "I have somethin' that might let me see through that illusion." He lifted something small. Kozin spotted a trinket glittering in the sun. "It just needs a wee boost."

* * *

It was only when the display case opened and the set was taken out that Undevar truly came to terms with what was happening. The cold light of the morning glared off of the polished leather and spotless chainmail. The housekeepers had tirelessly maintained the grandmaster's ursine armor, keeping it in a battle-ready state. Of course, it had always been done out of reverence and tradition. No one had expected the ancient armor to be donned on like this.

The furs were shed, replaced by cold metal and hard leather straps. The sun had already risen high and shortened the shadows by the time he fastened the metal gauntlets to his arms. Undevar glanced out the window one more time before hauling the swords over his shoulder and cinching the buckle tightly across his chest.

Undevar emerged from the grandmaster's wing and headed to the front of the keep. He found Brimir and the other witchers waiting, also in armor with the hilts of their weapons glinting over their shoulders. If Theila didn't make it in time, the clans coming to the island would find witchers that were ready for them.

He felt dread when he heard the boats coming, but quickly realized they were not the war boats he was expecting. As he looked out, dread turned into real fear when he realized who had come to the island instead. Undevar's heart thundered as he hurried towards the dock. The boats were close now. Flame erupted from the grandmaster's hands. The docks were set alight—a clear message.

It was one that the boats ignored. They veered away from the flames and headed towards the beach. Boots splashed into the shallow water as the witchers descended from their boats. They found themselves confronted by a furious grandmaster.

"Get back into your boats," Undevar seethed softly, "and sail away from this island."

"Grandm—."

 _"Right now!"_ Undevar interrupted with a roar. So many had returned against his will.

"If there are enough swords, we can fend them off," Kozin argued.

"And what would that do?" Undevar said, "Save for inciting more hate?"

"What would leaving you behind do?"

He grabbed Kozin's arm, leaning towards the black-haired witcher. "Ensure that you _live_." Undevar's eyes slid past Kozin and onto the boats waiting in the water. "Brimir!" he called before Kozin could reply. "Fetch Ruadh and the others. Load them onto the boats."

As if to answer his words, a roar was emitted as the air split. Undevar felt his heart drop when he saw the portal open. A figure emerged and freesia filled the air.

Undevar turned away before the sorceress could meet his eyes. Instead, he glared at the witchers being led onto the boats. There was nothing but silence at first.

Then, a soft question. "Why are you armed?"

"You need to get off this island."

"Look at me." The command was sharp. Undevar turned, but only because he was ready to force the sorceress off the island if he had to. "Why are you dressed like you're prepared to fight? Like you expect to stay on this island?"

"They found the keep, Theila."

"That doesn't answer my question!" Her eyes were shining with tears. Undevar had rarely ever seen Theila cry. "You said we were going to Toussaint! We were going to spend an eternity together!"

"Theila," Undevar said slowly. He knew the others were listening closely too. "Running will do no good. Not to the future generations of witchers and the people who need them."

"What about them?"

"The isles need to forgive witchers. And to do that, they need a villain. They need to know that the villain was defeated, and that the threat is gone. That's how Skelligers are. That's how all people are."

"Time will make them forget," Theila insisted.

"How long will that take? Decades—no, centuries. The people who will die without witchers cannot wait that long. There needs to be a villain. If I am to be passed through history as such, then so be it." A tear fell from the corner of her eye and glided down her cheek. The grandmaster brushed it away with a thumb and held his hand there against her face. "But if you keep me, the real me, close to your heart, that is all I need."

Theila squeezed her eyes shut. She clasped a hand over his, pressing it to her cheek. "You've always left me behind," she whispered. "Always. And now you'll go to somewhere I can't follow."

Undevar bundled her into his arms, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Freesia danced around him, reminding him of his youth. "Someday," he murmured into her hair, "you will find another one who will make your heart burn just as brightly."

"I won't let that happen."

Theila pulled back to gaze up at him, though her hands still held tightly to the straps on his chest. Undevar let his hands slide around her shoulders. "Look after them, Theila," he told her softly. "Make sure they reach the Continent. Do this for me." Her lips tightened. She gave him a nod.

Undevar let her go. He turned back to the witchers on the shore. Only Kozin wouldn't meet his eyes. "Laddie…"

"There really are monsters wearing human skins," he heard Kozin mutter.

"No, laddie. They are people who have been hurt by a generation of selfish witchers, and are now scared. They're trying to protect their families, their people. Kozin, raise your eyes. Remember what I said to you—no witcher of the Bear guild keeps his face lowered and his eyes downcast like some shamed bairn." Finally, Kozin looked up. Undevar could see within them the grief he was so afraid of showing. "Remember, laddie. There are always, _always_ people who deserve your kindness. Never let anything blacken your heart. Will you promise your grandmaster this?"

Kozin nodded. In a voice so quiet that Undevar barely caught it, he replied, "I promise, Da."

Beside him, Andryk suddenly said, "Ye don't have te do this, Grandmaster! Ye really don't!" Undevar gave him a tired smile.

"Take care of each other, lads," he said simply. "And good hunting on your seasons to come." When Undevar turned, he spotted Brimir still standing on the shore. He jerked his head sharply towards the boats. "Off with you," he said.

"Undevar," Brimir replied, crossing his arms, "we grew up together. Hunted together. We trained witchers right together. And we'll raise our blades for this keep and die together." Undevar was silent as Brimir continued. "This is a right you'll not deny me."

There was a creak from one of the boats, and the a loud, "Well then!" Ruadh splashed through the water and back onto the beach. "It's every bit my right too." The horsemaster spotted the concern in Undevar's eyes. "I'm healed enough to swing my blade and strike true. Besides, you are a man who does not deserve to die alone."

"That's right!" another voice chimed in. Baldric and Bodraas—the twin witchers who had also come to the island, climbed from their boat. "We're going to—."

"Nay," Undevar cut off with a scowl. The two witchers glared their protests.

"But we're Bears too! We deserve to be—." Bodraas was cut off when Undevar walked over to him and seized him by the collar of his chest plate. His other hand grabbed Baldric by the base of his arm, and he dragged the twins back towards the boat to throw them back on board.

"It would do you good to stay there," Ruadh told them.

"But after you, there will be no more Bear masters," another witcher said.

Brimir laughed. "There's still you all, isn't there?" he replied. "Master is just a title, laddie."

What little cheer remained in the air was immediately cut down by the low bellow of a horn. Eyes flew to the horizon, and there they were—specks in the distance.

"Set sail," Undevar ordered. "Immediately."

Only Theila hadn't boarded yet. She watched the ships with wide eyes. "Maybe if I stay," she said in a panicked voice. "Maybe if I stay…"

"Theila, they will see the boats leaving," Undevar said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her back towards him. "After me, they will come for you. They are faster. Keep my witchers safe. Do not throw away eternity for me."

He implored her with his gaze, but she replied shakily, "I can't leave you."

He kissed her. For the last time, he knew, and so he was torn between lingering on the last bit of haven against her lips and letting her go. Cruelly, Undevar parted from her.

"I love you," he whispered, "so much."

He watched Theila board the boat. Sails were let loose to catch the wind, and the vessels began to move away from the shore—carrying the grandmaster's soul away from the keep as his body was left behind. As they left the island, Undevar heard Theila's fading murmur as the sorceress placed enchantments around the island.

The grandmaster stood on the shore. He saw Kozin turn and look back. Undevar remained where he stood, silently sending him off as he had always done.

* * *

 _I look to the sea_

 _Reflections in the waves spark my memory_

 _Some happy, some sad_

 _I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had_

 _We live happy forever, so the story goes_

 _But somehow we missed out_

 _On that pot of gold_

"Come Sail Away"—Styx


	50. Chapter 50 - But With a Roar

The enchantments were triggered as the ships neared the island. In a blink, jagged stalagmites shot up from the seafloor at cruel angles, skewering the front line of ships. The vessels that managed to veer around the stalagmites triggered the second ring of traps. Wood groaned and cracked as magic tore the ships apart in invisible explosions.

Even then, the war boats reached the shore.

The endless pounding of feet struck the beach. There were so many men. Too many. At first, the witchers were able to keep them at bay. The Skelligers were terrified of the demons that had stormed out to meet them.

But then, as they discovered that witchers could bleed, their bravery grew. They outnumbered the mutants—dozens of warriors to one.

Though the witchers struggled, they never stopped watching out for each other's backs. When one became surrounded, another would charge in to clear the way. But it soon became clear that if they remained on the beach, the battle would be a short one.

They retreated back into the outer wall. When the last witcher passed through the gate, Brimir cut the chain with a swoop of his blade. The heavy gate fell and bit deep into the earth.

An arrow bounced off of the gate, clanging loudly. Another managed to find a hole and soared through. Undevar reeled back, feeling the brush of wind cut his face. The gate shuddered heavily when the Skelligers clashed against it, bashing their shields and weapons against the hardy metal. Ruadh shot fire at the gate, scalding those who didn't get out of the way in time. He jerked back when a reciprocating arrow sank deep into his shoulder.

"Ruadh, get into the keep!" Undevar barked, stopping to look back at the horsemaster. Ruadh shot another blast of Igni at the rattling gate, but he remained where he was.

"Grandmaster, we both knew I wouldn't last long—injured as I am," Ruadh replied, gripping his shoulder. "Get yourself and Brimir inside the keep. Fortify the doors and survive as long as you can."

He didn't want to leave Ruadh behind to face the enemy alone, but it was his last request. Undevar would honor it. "I'll see you again in the halls of our fathers," he told the horsemaster.

"First drinks are on me, Grandmaster."

Undevar turned and raced towards the keep. Behind him, he heard Ruadh shout, "Come on, you damn bastards! Come finish what you started!" The gate juddered.

Brimir met Undevar at the main doors of the keep. "Why did we leave Ruadh behind?" Brimir demanded. "We ought to be out there fighting with him!"

"The majority of the war boats landed on the island," Undevar told him, slamming his shoulder against the massive wooden door. Slowly, it dragged shut. Brimir planted his hands on the door and helped push it close. "And they won't go after the others while we still live. That's why we must stay alive for as long as we can manage." They dragged benches from the dining hall to pin against the door. Undevar could still hear the unholy clamor coming from outside. Unable to stop himself, he hurried to a small porthole and peered out. Brimir did the same.

The gate was already heavily dented. The strength of Skelligan warriors was something to behold—they were already starting to break through the solid metal. Their progress was slowed by Ruadh pushing them back with blasts of Igni and Aard.

Then, a loud roar shook the air. Men cleared from the gate, and something slammed so hard against it that even the bricks around it puffed out dust. Through the holes of the gate, Undevar saw a massive shape and rippling fur.

Beside him, Brimir paled. "Berserkers," he breathed, horrified. Another slam hit the gate, and metal shrieked as it was ripped open into jagged teeth. With one final push, the massive bear broke through the gate. As soon as it barreled through the outer wall, a crossbow bolt disappeared into its neck. The beast roared in fury, undeterred by its new wound, and charged at Ruadh. The witcher strafed out of its path and replaced the crossbow in his hands with the steel blade. He cut a deep slash into the bear before turning his attention quickly to the men who were moving to flank him. He fought as though no injuries were weighing him down. Scores of men were cut down under his flashing steel.

Two more berserkers in bear form charged in. They snapped their jaws and swiped their curved claws at the witcher, who managed to evade them. But even the horsemaster's skill could not protect him from the sheer numbers he was faced with. Brimir cursed as he yanked his crossbow from his back. "He's not going to fight them alone." He loaded a bolt, aimed through the porthole, and fired. A Skelliger tensed and fell.

It still wasn't enough. Quickly, Brimir's supply of bolts was starting to empty. Ruadh's movements grew sluggish and sloppy as the injured witcher began to tire. He had managed to fall one berserker, but the other two lashed out at him relentlessly. Not only that, but there seemed to be an endless stream of warriors pouring through the gate.

Suddenly, Ruadh stumbled when the point of a spear dug deep into his body. Exhaustion and pain stunned him, and the horsemaster couldn't avoid the wide jaws of the bear that flew at him. The berserker clamped its teeth over the witcher's arm and wrenched hard. The arm stayed connected, but Undevar saw blood spurt and smelled the sickeningly fresh stench of copper even from within the keep where he watched. Ruadh screamed out. Undevar's heart hammered out with fear and despair. He knew he was witnessing his brother's last moments.

"They're going to fucking tear him apart!" Brimir shouted.

Undevar suddenly turned, snatching the crossbow and the last bolt out of Brimir's hands. He quickly cocked the string back and leveled the weapon to his face. He closed one eye and aimed. Another berserker seized Ruadh by his shredded arm. Undevar's finger tightened over the trigger, and then he squeezed it. The bolt was freed.

Ruadh's head jerked. He dropped.

The berserker released him, roaring angrily. Black, beady eyes pointed towards the keep. The floor shook as men and beasts stormed towards the keep. A thrown spear ricocheted off of the rim of the porthole. The two witchers withdrew.

"Get away from the door," Undevar said, nodding his head towards the body of the keep. As they ran down the hall, the door and benches were already beginning to jump from the weight of the intruders outside.

They had covered ground when they heard the telltale explosion signaling that the keep had finally fallen. Now, all they could do was prolong the manhunt long enough for the young witchers and Theila to get away.

But their space to run was shrinking. Skelligers flooded the halls like blood through veins. Soon, they found themselves forced to fight when all exits were cut off. Clashing steel and furious roars echoed through the stony confines of the keep as its last few occupants fought for their lives. As they battled, they slowly moved through the halls. The grandmaster's wing was not far. If they edged close enough, they could make a break for it. It would only buy them a few more minutes, but it was all they had left.

* * *

Brimir saw the opportunity as soon as his blast of Aard cleared the base of the stairwell. The grandmaster's wing was just beyond. But if the Skelligers wanted to get up there, this was their only way through.

"Undevar! Let's go!" Brimir shouted. The grandmaster turned at his words and ran for the stairs. His old armor was serving him well, but fatigue was slowly eating away at him. Brimir too was beginning to feel the slow venom of exhaustion.

If they both ran up to the wing, they only had a short time before the keep would be completely overrun. But if one of them stayed behind to guard the staircase, that time could triple. Brimir made to run up the stairs as well, but turned to face the army charging at their heels.

"Brimir!"

"You know this has to be done!" Brimir yelled back. "I'll see you on the other side, Undevar!" Pounding feet told Brimir that his grandmaster had retreated back to his temporary refuge.

He cut men down as they climbed the steps. A berserker charged at him, mouth gaping. The tip of the steel sword slid between the gleaming fangs and gored the beast through the throat. Heavily, the corpse slumped over the stairs.

Brimir pushed the body down the stairs with a blast of Aard. It tumbled down, clearing the stairwell only temporarily. The second berserker dodged around its fallen companion to lunge at the witcher. Brimir danced between it and the Skelligers, deftly exchanging strikes between the two sides.

He had lived a good life. His training as a Bear witcher had taught him what to be and what not to be. On the Continent, he had found many good friends to share drinks with and plenty of pretty lasses to forsake sleep with. He had no regrets, and looked forward to seeing his fallen brothers again.

Brimir slayed the last berserker, cutting a gash so deep into the beast's belly that entrails fell and steamed on the floor. So preoccupied was he with the weapons and projectiles that came at him in torrents, he didn't notice the figure slowly approaching from behind the warriors. This figure, also with cat-eyes, leisurely unhooked a hatchet from his belt.

Then, in a quiet voice that he knew Brimir would hear, he said, "It's been a long time, hasn't it?" He drew his arm back just as Brimir looked at him.

He shouted when he let the hatchet fly—a bellow full of power and hate. It flipped in the air for only a heartbeat before it struck. Then, there was only one left.

* * *

When Undevar heard them coming for him, he knew he was alone. He was tired. It wasn't just his body—every part of him ached. His hand scraped against stone as he pulled himself along the wall.

Undevar thought of the eyes he had seen just moments ago. It had been back in the lower halls of the keep. He saw those eyes through the helmet. They had been a boy's eyes—young. Too young to die. But Undevar had thrust his blade and stuck him through without hesitation.

Because there needed to be a villain.

He glanced over his shoulders, hearing echoes down the hall. Undevar had nearly reached the end of the wing. Soon, there would be nowhere left to run.

Up ahead was a door. It crashed open when the grandmaster flung himself through it. He paused, holding himself against the doorframe. Bright sunlight streamed through the window. Undevar's eyes settled upon the potted freesia lining the sills, their delicate petals open to the sun. He missed her already.

They were coming up behind him. The softness was gone from the grandmaster's eyes, and once again he became the blackhearted witcher. He turned just as the closest reached him, swinging an arm out as he did. The metal side of his gauntlet cracked against a skull. Blood and teeth fell on the stone floor. He pushed them back away from the door.

He would fight and fight until they would finally overcome him with brute strength. There was no other way around it.

But that didn't happen. Suddenly, Undevar heard someone call out, "Leave this one for me." Weapons stilled and the men withdrew before Undevar's quick blade could take advantage of their pause. From the crowd emerged a tall figure—a witcher who had once trained in the School of the Bear.

He walked undaunted towards Undevar, steel greatsword already in one hand. At the sight of him, Undevar glowered darkly.

"What have you done to my guild?" The rage had drained out of his voice, leaving only desperation.

"Bettering it," his opponent answered, giving his blade a lazy swing. It sent Undevar on edge, but he stood his ground. "You know as well as I do that the grandmasters of this keep are replaced, and I think you've sat on your throne for long enough."

Undevar lifted his blade as the witcher stopped in front of him. "No witcher of mine would ever call you their grandmaster, Cahal."

"Those _mistakes_ aren't fit for my guild."

The tense stalemate was broken. With an infuriated shout, Undevar flew at Cahal. Steel clashed in a vile dance as both witchers struck at each other with unrestrained force, their attacks pushed by every intention to kill the other. Cahal's blade came in a wide, swinging arc towards Undevar's head. The force at which it came would knock any parry aside. Undevar ducked down as the blade flashed in a blink over his head.

As he came up, Undevar held his greatsword up parallel to the ground with both hands. He made to thrust the point towards Cahal's chest. When Cahal moved to block, Undevar quickly danced two steps to the left. His blade whirled over his head in a rapid cut and struck Cahal in the hip. Cahal stumbled. The sword hadn't gone through his armor, and he quickly regained his footing.

Angrily, Cahal swung at him. Undevar drew a swift line with his blade to meet the strike, and then retracted it back over his shoulder to draw the second half of an X. The sword collided into Cahal's other hip. With a strained grunt, Cahal drew back with his blade poised, and the two men watched each other closely.

"I can see how you could have managed to take down Valdre." Suddenly, Cahal pulled his sword away and shot Aard. Undevar threw out a Quen shield, feeling the impact bash against the force field. Cahal quickly followed up with a slash, but retracted it back at the last second and instead thrusted it into Undevar's stomach. The grandmaster stumbled back as the tip pushed against his chainmail.

Cahal's sword came at him again. This time, Undevar dropped one hand from his sword and held up an arm to block the attack. The blade grinded heavily against his gauntlet, and Undevar felt the shock travel through his bones. His other hand shoved his blade forward. It found a crevice in Cahal's armor and touched flesh. With a growl, Cahal drew back, giving the wounded shoulder a rough shake before resuming his stance.

The fight continued. Both men handled their blades as though weightless, though their strength forced bruises into flesh and drew blood. Cahal danced between feigning blows to deliver underhanded ones and attacking with full force. Undevar adeptly evaded his attacks and pursued even the smallest opportunities to take advantages of cracks in Cahal's form. But one of them was far more burdened.

Fire leapt from both. Quen shields just managed to drive off killing blows before breaking. Blades slashed at armor and metal and flesh. In a fair fight, it could have been possible that either witcher would emerge victorious.

But it wasn't fair.

Undevar saw Cahal raise a hand, and anticipated the Sign he would unleash from it. But he kept it as it was—an open hand. From behind him, Undevar saw the quick flash of an arrow. He was already too weak. The arrow lodged itself right above his collarbone. He stumbled back. Undevar barely had enough time to regain his footing when another arrow struck him right next to the first. He felt nothing but the dull impact made from each arrow. His body seized up.

Undevar heard Aard boom out and flew back into the room behind him. His head swam with nauseating light-headedness, and he struggled to breathe. Undevar felt himself being lifted off the ground. The chainmail around his neck grew tight and throttled him. Cahal dragged him towards the window.

"We were supposed to take on the world together, don't you remember?" Cahal snarled. With a heavy shove, he forced Undevar's head through the glass. The freesia pots shattered and fell from the ledge. Then, pulling the bleeding grandmaster back, Cahal continued, "Until you saddled yourself with that whore and turned your back on all of us!" He struck Undevar hard across the jaw, sending him onto the ground. "Well I hope she gave you the ride of your life! I hope this was all worth it to you!" As Undevar struggled to pull himself up, Cahal sent his boot flying deep into the grandmaster's ribs. Undevar fell back again, unable to even vocalize his pain anymore.

He was lifted off the floor again and slammed against a wall. "We used to be brothers," Cahal reminded him through gritted teeth.

Blood had poured around and into Undevar's eyes, but he stared deep into Cahal's as he growled back, "You are no brother of mine."

Cahal threw him aside. Undevar landed heavily on his back. He no longer had control of his failing body. All he could do was watch as Cahal turned away from him and barked a command. When he turned back, Undevar saw that he had a broad battle-axe in his hands. He walked up to Undevar, aligning his feet next to the grandmaster's head. "So be it then."

The silver Bear looked up at the axe raised above him. Then he closed his eyes. The sound of metal hitting stone echoed through the keep.

* * *

Her eyes finally opened, and she stared back at the island. A lifetime ago, they had once thought themselves invincible. How naïve they had been.

There was no life in her voice as she whispered, "He's gone."

* * *

Their progress through the keep had been marked by the thick trail of bodies, all leading up to this final room. After the axe had struck down onto the stained stone floor, a cold silence filled the keep. A victory like this should have been celebrated loudly—here, and then later during a rowdy feast.

Instead, there was an unnatural silence. The Skelligan warrior standing wordlessly by the door felt strange. For some reason, he did not feel as though he had won a victory.

He watched the witcher stoop down and seize the head by its hair. He knew witchers claimed the heads of their kills, but… this felt wrong.

Suddenly, there was movement. The decapitated body shuddered heavily against the stone floor. Men, seasoned and hardened by battle, drew back in fear as the corpse gave its last death throes. Even in death, they feared him—Undevar, the Blackhearted.

At last the body stilled. Blood trickled out in a weak stream from the neck, spreading the dark puddle on the glistening floor. Then, someone shouted a command. Back to the boats. They weren't done. There were more witchers to hunt down.

So that's why it hadn't felt like a victory yet, the warrior reasoned to himself.

* * *

 _And now the darkest hour collides_

 _With our unguarded lives_

 _If we were invincible_

 _If we could never die_

 _Then all the world could rise against us_

 _And we'd dare to fight_

"Invincible"—All Good Things


	51. Chapter 51 - Home

_**9/3 - New cover is Theila. To see past covers and additional artwork, look up Wewereinvincibleart on instagram.**_

 _ **Because sometimes I get bored.**_

 _ **Also fall classes have started. Updates are coming, but they might take a while.**_

* * *

"He's gone." Her empty voice drew his gaze. She stood at the edge of the boat, her hands gripping its side as she stared into the horizon. There was no shape of an island where she looked, but Kozin knew she could see it.

Her words struck him deep inside his chest. He was gone—the only father he ever knew. The kind of man the world hardly ever saw. But perhaps it was better that he was now sailing towards a better world—one that knew no suffering.

There was still plenty of suffering here. Kozin watched it take over the sorceress in front of him. She dropped her head. Her hair fell in curtains around her face.

"Theila…"

"I should have stayed."

"He didn't want you to."

"What does it matter what he wants?" Theila suddenly snapped, raising her head. Her eyes flashed. "What about me? 'Don't throw away eternity for me'? Then what's left?" The anger drained from her face, replaced with tired defeat. "I should have stayed with him until the end. We were supposed to leave together."

"You can't," Kozin suddenly said. He hesitated, and then continued, "I need you. I can't lose anyone else."

"I know," Theila replied softly. She turned and leaned heavily against the side of the boat. A witcher sitting by the mast rose and offered her the seat. Theila pointed out his injuries, but the witcher only shook his head in obstinate refusal. The sorceress lowered herself onto the bench, her eyes avoiding the horizon.

"Where will you go, Kozin?" she asked. The black-hair witcher took a moment to ponder. It suddenly dawned on him that he no longer had the keep to retreat to for the winter.

He was silent, and then turned away. "I don't know." _Everything is gone_.

Oslan and Andryk were sitting by the bow. Andryk had his head in his hands. "You all right, mate?" Oslan asked quietly.

"I hate it," Andryk mumbled. Louder, he repeated, "I hate it. I fuckin' _hate it!"_ Every witcher felt it when he slammed his fist down on the seat beside him. Lying at his feet, Aegis lifted her head and whined. "Can't stand knowin' they died fer us!" He lowered his head further, digging his fingers through his hair. "The masters… I got a million things in me head I wish I could've said te them… I'll never get te. Thinkin' about all the times I gave 'em trouble."

"Haw, Andryk, none o'em wud'a given a shite," a witcher several generations older said, slapping a hand over Andryk's shoulder. "Aren't a single pupil that never got tough wi'em." Andryk dropped his hands, but didn't raise his head.

Kozin looked down at the water. Listening to Andryk made him think of Undevar—how close they had been during his boyhood. As he had gotten older, Kozin had drifted away from the old witcher. Something told him Undevar wouldn't have blamed him, but guilt stabbed at him all the same.

The moment of peace—the stillness that let them grieve, was broken when one witcher heard it first. He tensed, and like a plague the restlessness spread through the entire boat. Then they all heard it. Ships. They were being chased.

They came into view quickly. The war boats were heavier, but their sails were wider and their weight became an advantage through momentum—the longer they moved, the faster they became.

The witcher at the till was the first to break his eyes away. "Pull tension!" he barked. "We've got to catch more wind!"

"Sails are as taut as they'll get!" another shouted back. "No way around it! They'll be on our arses in a matter of minutes!"

"Fixin' to ram us! Lads, get ready with Quen!"

The energy had shot Kozin up to his feet. He leapt over the seats to get to the till, glaring back at the ships that were quickly catching up. So they hadn't been satisfied with just raiding the keep. Of course—Skelligers weren't interested in simple victories.

"Fuck it, let them reach us!" he heard Andryk roared. "Jump onte their ships and gut every last one o'them!"

"We won't get any chance to jump if they smash us to bits first! Like I said, Quen at the ready!"

One of the war boats was advancing on them. As it approached, it grew taller and taller. Suddenly, the hull of their own boat began to feel like eggshells. Kozin wasn't sure if Quen was enough to save them.

Just as its shadow touched them, the war boat suddenly flew back at an impossible speed. Its bow cracked and caved in from the force, and a massive wave kicked up from its stern and crashed over the deck. The ship groaned like a wounded beast.

Kozin turned just as she walked past him. Her eyes were glowing a brilliant white, and it was as though she saw no one else around her. Witchers drew away from her. As she came upon the edge of the boat, she did not slow. Kozin reached for her.

"Theila—!"

 _"You took him from me."_ The words didn't come from her. They crashed from the sky like thunder, as though Freya herself had uttered those words.

The sorceress placed a foot on the edge of the boat as though it were a step. She lifted her other, and her heel left the edge as the boat left the suspended sorceress behind. Kozin hurried right up to the till, watching as the distance from her grew. Suddenly a gust of wind, cold and bitter, cut him in the face and forced his arms up to shield himself. The other witchers, in all boats, turned away as shrieking gales picked up around them.

Squinting, Kozin managed to lift his eyes up to see that the cloudless sky had become a dark, swirling horde. Then he watched her, unable to look away. The wind she commanded whipped her hair and dress out, transforming what had once been a woman into an entity of wrath. Bolts of lightning shot down from the jet-black clouds. The thunder that accompanied them was drowned out by the loud, angry voice that boomed through the air.

Lightning struck a ship, tearing through its sails. Then another shot down, and the vessel was on fire. The flames spread unnaturally fast. By the time it passed her and cut between the witcher boats, no longer guided, it was a towering colossal of fire.

But the voice didn't stop. Over the crackling of flames, Kozin could still hear her. He saw her arms spread wide, and suddenly the war boats dipped down as the water below them sank. Then, like leviathans rising slowly, two waves emerged on either side. As they closed in, the waves grew until they reared over the tallest mast.

To Kozin, they seemed to move in slow motion until the very last second. In that instant, he only saw one last glimpse of the ships being pushed together before the waves collided with an ear-shattering explosion. Water flew up towards the sky, and even Kozin felt heavy drops hit his face. When the waves finally melted back into the ocean, there was nothing left but dark forms in the water. Patches of sunlight poked through as the clouds shrank away. The wind died down.

Then, like a puppeteer cutting the strings, the suspended figure grew limp as her strength left her. Kozin saw her drop from the air. He heard the splash as she broke through the water's surface.

He had thrown his swords off before he realized what his body was doing. Someone shouted, but their voice was cut off when he dove into the water.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the murky light. There were many shapes in the water—sharp, angular silhouettes that were once ships, and drifting forms with limbs. But none of them were her.

With broad sweeps, Kozin pushed himself through the water. His eyes danced around, and his heart hammered from exertion and the fear of not finding her. So many shapes, but he still couldn't find her.

When he ran out of breath, Kozin surfaced. Water streamed from his face and his lips parted to let him gasp deeply. The sky above him was clear. His mouth tightened into a seal again and he sank back beneath the waves. This time, he grew more frantic. Reaching out, he pushed wood and bodies out of his way. His head swiveled around, scanning every inch of the deep blue around him.

He recognized her by her hair—the way it drifted beautifully around her face. Her arms were lifted above her as she fell slowly through the water. Kozin saw that her eyes were closed as he swam to her. She could have been asleep.

Slipping an arm around her waist, Kozin paddled back up to the surface with her. He pulled her face into the air, watching desperately for any sign of life. Her head lolled against her shoulder. Wet streaks of hair fell down her still face.

Kozin felt pressure build his chest. It was damn near ready to explode. He couldn't bear to lose someone else. "Theila?" She was still asleep.

A boat had turned around for them. Andryk and Oslan pulled them out of the water. Kozin laid her on the boat's floor and turned her head to the side. Water trickled from her mouth.

Oslan knelt down beside him. Panicked, Kozin said, "What do I do, Os? I can't lose her too."

The blond witcher sighed heavily. "Move aside, Ko." Kozin shifted. He watched as Oslan pinched Theila's nose and bent down to put his lips over hers, much to Kozin's shock. He pushed air into her mouth—four breaths. Then he turned his head and hovered an ear above her face. There was a pause, and he lowered to breath into her mouth again.

This time, when Oslan lifted his head, Kozin heard soft, shallow breaths coming from the sorceress. He stared. "How did you do that?"

Oslan glanced at him, and then looked back down as Theila's eyes fluttered open. Her breaths became heavier. She stirred. Kozin put a hand over her shoulder. "Take it easy," he told her. The sorceress's eyes drifted to him.

"You…" Her voice was croaky, "shouldn't have pulled me out."

"What would you have me do?" Kozin demanded. "Watch you drown?"

The sorceress didn't answer him. She said nothing for the rest of the way.

* * *

They arrived on the shores of Verden just before the dawn. Theila was still too weak to stand by then, so Kozin carried her onto land. He had contacted Cayessa, who would arrive later that day. The witchers set up camp close to the shore. Occasionally, they would glance out towards the water where their home once was. Then, they would look away.

There was one gaze that never turned away. Her olive eyes never left the ocean. Kozin sat next to her. He tried talking to her, but she never responded.

Kozin felt lost. He had always relied on her to be strong. And now more than ever, he needed her, but Theila was gone.

Cayessa appeared in the late afternoon with her tower. She found Kozin and Theila still sitting on the shore. When Cayessa crouched by Theila, she finally spoke.

"There are wounded here."

Cayessa looked uncertain. "But Kozin told me you—."

"Go." Her hiss was biting.

Cayessa stood and hurried back to the witcher camp. Kozin watched her go, and then glared at Theila. Before he could say anything, the sorceress said, "You too, Kozin."

The witcher hesitated before rising. He left, but not before saying, "It doesn't help anyone to be like this." When he arrived back at camp, Cayessa was tending to a witcher who was insisting that he was fine. Oslan knelt by the unlit fire pit, arranging the kindling. Andryk sat on the ground, his back against a rock. Aegis pawed hopefully at his arm, but he ignored her as he stared unseeingly at a patch of grass. Few words were exchanged. To say the mood was somber was an understatement.

Cayessa looked up as she noticed him and rose. "Kozin," she said. "What happened? Why did you need to go back to the Bear keep yesterday?" Worry clouded her eyes. "Why is Theila like that?"

"Bear is dead."

"Dead? What…?" She blinked and lowered her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me? I could have…"

"What would you have done?" Kozin asked. "What could any of us have done?"

Cayessa brought a hand up to his face. "Kozin—."

"I'm worried about her," the witcher said. "You didn't see what she was like."

"What do you mean?"

Kozin didn't want to bring it to words. "Look in," he told her. He felt Cayessa cup either side of his face. He leaned his head down, watching her bring her face up to him. As he closed his eyes, Kozin felt their foreheads press together. A sharp tingle appeared at the base of his skull, quickly spreading through his head and settling right behind his eyes. The sensation made him furrow his brow. He felt Cayessa gently run her thumbs across his cheeks.

He saw the memory as she brought it forth—a figure amidst the storm. Air ripping the sails and water commanded to destroy. Then, quickly, the memory was allowed to slip away. Kozin felt Cayessa draw away from him and opened his eyes.

She looked upset. Her arms were brought up to wrap around herself. "Those people…" she said softly. Kozin thought of the men who were obliterated between those angry waves. But unlike the sorceress, he did not feel remorse.

"They got what was coming to them," he growled. Then, he thought of the grandmaster and his last words he had spoken to Kozin. A small nugget of regret settled in his stomach, but he refused to acknowledge it.

"At least you're safe now," Cayessa murmured. She looked towards the beach. "Theila was so close to the grandmaster… just like you and I. I can't imagine what it's like." Her eyes returned to Kozin's. "Losing you is my greatest fear, you know. For most people, it's different—people who get to grow old together. When one of them is on their deathbed, the other tells me 'it's okay, I'll see them again soon.' We can't say that. We don't know how far away 'soon' is, not unless we take the easy way out." Cayessa sighed. "I'll stay with her tonight. Just to make sure she's okay. Get some rest. We can… figure out what to do next tomorrow." She headed for the beach.

Kozin watched her disappear, and then walked to the campsite where Oslan and Andryk were. The fire pit had been lit. Flames crackled and sent glowing specks drifting into the darkening air.

He found his brothers sitting together next to the rock. Andryk was scratching Aegis's scruff as she rested her chin on his lap. Oslan stared into the fire and rolled the gold ring on his medallion chain between his fingers.

"All right, you two?" Kozin asked quietly as he settled on the ground.

"As all right as we'll get," Andryk replied. He looked down at Aegis. "First time we've been on the Continent, the little lass and I." Dryly, he added, "Took the uprooting o'our home te get us here."

"Do you think we'll ever get to go back?" Oslan wondered.

"We have te," Andryk replied. "That's what the grandmaster died fer—so Bears can return te the isles. The question now is, will it ever feel like home again? Fuckin' doubt it."

"What about the keep?" Golden eyes around the campsite looked to Oslan as he said it. He glanced around before returning to his brothers. "We could always rebuild it. Lads, we don't have to let home die."

"Os," Kozin said, bringing his pipe up to his lips. "It's not that simple." He lowered his eyes, his other hand reaching up to grasp the medallion at his neck. "Home wasn't a place. It was a person."

Silence settled over the camp. Then, one of the witchers said heavily, "Aye, I'd drink to that." He raised his hand to give an invisible toast. Then, other hands rose. Kozin hesitated, and then pinched the pipe between his teeth to lift his. The silence stretched on, and lingered as the witchers lay down and attempted to find peace in dreams. The fire had been reduced to glowing pieces of charred wood.

Kozin stared up at the sky, dotted in stars as though some deity had thrown them across the black like a handful of feed. He turned his head to listen to the beach where the sorceresses were. All he could hear of them were their quiet breaths and heartbeats.

He thought of Undevar. He saw the grandmaster standing on the beach, watching the distance between them grow. A part of Kozin still believed he was still waiting there on that shore.

It was a miracle that he had managed to fall asleep. He must've been exhausted, because the next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake. Golden eyes blinked open to the light of early morning. Kozin saw Cayessa over him. Her hand was still pinched over his arm.

"Kozin!"

"What is it, Cay?" he asked, sitting up. The other witchers were stirring too. Cayessa looked upset. Suddenly, Kozin remembered. "Where's Theila?"

"She's gone!" Cayessa fretted. "I-I tried to keep myself awake, but I think she put me to sleep. Kozin, she went back! I'm sure she did!"

"Back?" Kozin repeated, frowning as unease knotted in his chest. "Are you sure? Did she portal away?"

"No, she didn't use a portal. I think she knew it would wake you up. One of the boats is gone."

Kozin reached over and snatched up the swords that had been lying next to his bedspread. "Let's go."

"Hold up, Ko!" Andryk cut in. The others had overhead them. "That island's bound te be dangerous, especially if there's still some o'them shitheads still on it."

"We'll go too," Oslan added. He looked around the camp. "Everyone else needs to stay and look after the wounded. And besides." He looked to Kozin. "We'll bring back the bodies. The masters deserve a proper funeral."

"Aye," Bodraas replied heavily, getting to his feet. "We'll have the boats ready."

Cayessa opened the portal. The three witchers stepped through, and she followed in after them. When Kozin emerged from the other side, he was immediately hit with the sharp stench of blood. They had been transported just inside the outer wall. Even here, the grass was dark brown with old blood. Kozin glanced over his shoulder. The metal gate had been torn open. The keep had been reduced to nothing but the skeleton of a battleground. How had his home become just this?

"There's someone here," Oslan said, looking up at the keep. They could all tell—one beating heart from within the keep told them that.

"Is it her?" Cayessa asked.

"Might be," Kozin said. "Stay close to me, aye?"

They headed into the keep. The main entrance had been bashed in. Within the stony walls, they found more evidence of bloodshed. Maroon stains adorned the floor and walls in heavy waves. Mice and flies fled from the bits of gore they had been attracted to as the witchers passed. The heartbeat was coming from the grandmaster's wing.

"No bodies," Andryk noted as they walked.

"They cleaned up after it was all over," Oslan said. "Took the deceased home to their families."

"Did they take…?"

"Likely," Kozin said darkly. "As trophies."

"Fuckin' bastarts," Andryk hissed under his breath.

They came to the stairs leading up to the wing. Each step was coated with fetid blood. There was a strange smell coming from the wing. Whoever was in the keep was at the very end. As they neared the end of the hall, Kozin turned to the others and said, "Hang back a little."

Andryk and Oslan nodded. Cayessa looked as though she was prepared to argue, but remained silent. Kozin walked to the grandmaster's room. The door had been smashed in. He turned into the doorway.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to the window. A violet freesia blossom was in her hands. At the foot of the bed, there was a small mound underneath a blanket.

Theila didn't look up when Kozin stepped through the threshold. The blossom twirled between her fingers.

"This is where he died."

Kozin looked down. There was a wide circle of blood coating the floor. Theila lowered her hands and dropped the flower. It floated down to the edge of the red. "They took the bodies of the masters to Hindersfjall," she told him. Then, she rose and walked to the foot of the bed. She took the mound, bundling the blanket around it as she lifted it. Kozin noticed how tenderly she handled it.

"Theila…"

As she passed him, the sorceress said, "There's a body in the pool."

* * *

 _But I had him, and life seemed fair_

 _Yes I had him, and he was there_

 _To give me strength, show concern_

 _Ask for nothing in return_

 _Say hello, talk me through_

 _Do the things that fathers should do_

"Missing You"—AJ Holmes


	52. Chapter 52 - Along the Windowsill

Water skipped off the bow of the speeding boat. In its wake, the vessel left behind a trail of churning, foamy water. No wind flapped in the tied sails—magic pushed the boat back to Skellige. Its lone occupant looked forward, squinting her eyes against the harsh wind that whipped her hair around her face. It blasted her relentlessly, but at this speed she would reach the island within the day.

It was almost midnight. She knew that by morning, Cayessa and the witchers would definitely notice her absence. This was a brash thing that none of them would have expected from her, but they couldn't possibly understand the demons that were now whispering in her ear. Deep down, she knew this had all been her fault. He was gone and it was because of her.

Theila saw it in the horizon. Her own spell couldn't hide it from her. The sorceress thought back to the last time she had sailed to the island. She'd been aboard the king's schooner after volunteering to serve as his emissary. Theila remembered how her heart hammered at the sight of the island, and the keep that sat atop it like a crown. 50 years apart had done little to temper the nervous fire that flared up at the prospect of seeing him again.

But a part of her had also been scared that perhaps he no longer felt the same. He was the one, after all, who had cast her away after becoming grandmaster.

The docks had burned away. Charred posts jutting out from the water in blackened tips were all that was left. Theila steered the boat towards the beach and gently eased it to a stop just as the bow touched the sand beneath the shallow water.

There was blood on the beach. Theila walked through it as she made her way to the keep. It was deathly quiet. She had never seen the keep this still before. Bear was truly gone.

The gate had been destroyed. There was more blood here on the grass. No bodies remained to tell her what happened, but Theila knew that one of them had died here.

The sorceress paused. There was a place of power within the keep she could draw power from. It would be needed for Allil's Sight—a very powerful and complex spell named after its creator. Allil Dywnahéir, an elven sorceress, had created an enchantment that allowed its caster to see the events of the past.

Only now, Theila wasn't sure if she wanted to see. She was afraid, but she had to know.

Drawing in a deep breath, Theila lifted her arms from her sides and extended her fingertips. She closed her eyes, feeling the Chaos stored within the island latch onto the conduit of her fingers and creep up her arms. As they neared her core, she began chanting the words that Allil had composed centuries ago. Elder slipped from her lips, guiding the Chaos. Its energy shifted and molded at her words. Slowly, Theila raised her hands to her face and, with her fingertips, delicately touched her eyelids.

When they opened, her olive eyes had disappeared under the bright white glow. The world around her had become monochrome—color had faded into varying shades of gray. No longer was the keep empty. Before her, Theila saw men and beasts fighting. She saw them clearly, but they were translucent—reminders that they were nothing more than bygone echoes.

She recognized this witcher—the Horsemaster. Undevar had sought him out in Ofir, with Theila's help, to have him as one of his masters. He had been a very gentle man with a contagious laugh. Now here Theila stood, witnessing his last moments.

His body was no longer where it lay in this Sight, which meant only the Skelligers could have moved it. Theila vowed to the dead witcher that she would get it back and return him to the Bears.

She rewound the Sight back to when the crossbow bolt had flown out and paused it. Her eyes traced its path backwards and saw the small porthole where it had come from. With the ghostly forms still frozen around her, she made her way to the keep. Her heels thudded against the broken fragments of the door, and she came to where the porthole was. There, she saw him with the crossbow still perched by his face.

Theila stopped at the sight of him. Then, despite logic telling her that he was no longer there, she stepped forward and reached out to touch his face. There was no skin. Her fingers felt nothing but empty air as they dipped through his cheek. Theila retracted her hand and, taking another shaky breath, continued the Sight.

Pursued like foxes, the witchers ran deeper into the keep. When the hounds caught up to them, they fought. Theila followed Brimir up the stairs and watched the hatchet fly into his skull. She recognized the man who had killed him. Once he and Undevar had been close—identical, almost. Like Kozin, Andryk, and Oslan. Like brothers.

They raced up the steps and poured through the grandmaster's wing. It ate at Theila to witness the horde that had gone after her love. And it wrought hatred in her to see that witcher follow them so calmly.

Once again she paused the Sight so she could go ahead of the warriors and reach him before they did, as though it mattered.

She found him at the end of the wing, leaning against the door. Looking so utterly defeated. He had already resigned to his fate, and it wrenched at her heart to know that she hadn't been there.

Undevar was looking up. His eyes had fallen to something on the window. Theila looked to the grayed petals lined on the windowsill. She didn't know when he had planted them there, but he had been so embarrassed when she first discovered them.

Despite the fear that every passing moment in this Sight gave her, Theila continued the vision. She watched Undevar's shoulders rise and fall as he struggled to breathe. He was still looking at the flowers. Even though his eyes were pellucid, Theila saw them grow gentle and sad. She knew what he had been thinking of, and it sent tears trailing down her face.

Undevar turned, and he fought back the men who had come for him. Theila came up to the doorway as she continued to watch. Her lips were pressed into a tight line, and her hands were bunched into fists.

And then he appeared—the other witcher that had once been so close to the grandmaster. They squared off in a duel, and Undevar held his ground even though constant battle and stress had worn him down. He had been a fighter unlike anything Theila had ever seen in her long, long life. If he'd had the will, Undevar could've been a conqueror with no match. But he had chosen to love instead.

When the first arrow struck, Theila gripped her chest as though she had been hit as well. Her lips parted and she gasped when the second hit him. And then something struck him—pushed him back so forcefully he flew back through Theila and landed in the room behind her. The sorceress turned. Something passed through her, and she found herself looking at the back of the witcher as he strode towards Undevar.

His opponent was already defeated, but he continued to beat him down again and again in sadistic triumph. With each blow Undevar received, Theila felt it rip through her own body.

Finally, Undevar lay on the ground as the witcher turned away. Theila finally broke out of her horrified paralysis and rushed to him. She fell onto her knees beside him. His chest rose and fell weakly. Then, Theila looked up and saw that the witcher had turned back with an axe in his hands. Her eyes widened when he raised it like an executioner and screamed out, throwing herself over Undevar's form. The spell, no longer sustained, broke. Color returned to the world.

To her horror, Theila realized that the stone underneath her was red. She lifted her hands from the sticky floor and turned them over. It was on her palms. His blood. It was all over her. Theila began hyperventilating through gritted teeth.

But then, she realized that one part of her Sight had not gone away. The witcher that had been standing over them was still there.

Theila looked up, and suddenly he lunged at her, squeezing an iron grip over her throat. Her hands flew up to pull uselessly at his wrist. She couldn't even choke a breath out.

The witcher lifted her from the floor. He brought her close to his face, and there was a disturbing smile on his face.

"Ah yes," Theila heard him say casually above the soft ringing in her ears. "I recognize you." He threw her towards the bed. Theila hit one of the posts and crumpled to the ground. She tried to hurl him away with a push, but her breathlessness and Allil's Sight had exhausted her. What came was only a small force, which the witcher deflected with Quen. He grabbed the sorceress again and dragged her onto the bed. Pinning her down with his body, he clamped one hand over her mouth and held her wrist down with the other.

"I'll have to admit, he had good tastes. Not seen many a lass as well fuckable as you." Using the hand on her mouth, he pulled her head up and buried his face in her neck. He nipped painfully at her neck, and Theila struggled. But it was like fighting against stone. "What a lucky couple of days, hm?" he hissed into her neck. "I get the keep and a sexy little wench. It'll be nice having a pet sorceress." He brought his head up and forced her to stare at him. "I'm going to love the sight of you chained to my bedpost."

Theila glared and struggled again. All it seemed to do was amuse him. He laughed, and it was bitter and grating to her ears. "What's wrong, little whore? This is the bed he's been ploughing you on, isn't it? You should feel right at home then."

Theila's eyes darted around, searching for anything within reach she could use to save herself. His hand clamped over her mouth meant she couldn't cast any spells. With her heart pounding furiously in her chest, she wondered how far this was going to go. Well, not a second of it was going to pass without her fighting against it.

 _"Fuck_ , I'm going to enjoy this," the witcher groaned. He let go of her wrist so he could reach down and squeeze her breast. "You've got some real fine tits," he told her. "And now they belong to me."

Theila turned her head as much as she could, and managed to see a whittled carving of a bear on the nightstand out of the corner of her eye. Then, the witcher forced her to face him again. "Come on, wench, why'd you stop fighting?" he jeered. "I wanna feel you squirm."

She struggled again, but only to keep him distracted. "That's the spirit, lass," he purred. He pulled his hand away from her face and forced his lips onto hers. Theila pointed to the bear. Spells couldn't be casted without incantations, but deep concentration could still allow a mage to evoke magic in the barest of forms. Against the crushing weight of the witcher and the repulsive invasion his tongue had made into her mouth, Theila focused on the heavy wood carving next to her.

She felt magic shoot from her finger. In the next second, the witcher's lips were torn from hers as the bear carving cracked against the side of his head. He quickly caught himself on his side, but enough of him had been thrown off of her for Theila to scramble out from under him. She could hear him coming after her and ran out of the room.

Theila didn't realize how quickly he'd be able to catch up to her. She felt him grab her arm, and lifted a chunk of broken rock to throw at him. The witcher released her to dodge it. "Underestimated you, you feisty little whore," he sneered. "I'm going to have to keep those arms bound. And cut out your tongue. A shame, but it's only a small price to pay."

Theila threw her hand out at the ground underneath him. The witcher strafed back as the stone floor exploded, shooting up a wave of dust and gravel. He ran around the explosion, a sword in his hand. Theila saw him throw something. In that instant, she had disappeared by the time the Zerrikanian Sun detonated. The witcher whirled around when he heard the sorceress reappear behind him. Theila shot out a bright ring that threw him back. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled and was back on his feet. The witcher skirted out of the way of her next blast and quickly closed the distance between them. Theila managed to shield herself just in time as the sword struck her.

The shield shattered immediately under the force of the blow. It left her winded, and gave the witcher just enough time to turn his sword around and hit her with the pommel. She scraped her palms as she hit the ground.

"I'm not going to kill you," she heard the witcher say. "But don't expect me to wait for the wounds to heal before I start ploughing you long and hard."

Theila vanished and reappeared further away. She took the few seconds it took for him to relocate her to catch her breath. Then she flung an arm out, holding her hand open. The silver sword on the witcher's back flew from its sheath and into the sorceress's waiting hand.

It was _heavy_. Theila managed to catch it with her other hand before it dropped. The witcher barked a laugh. "Don't you look cute?" He began walking towards her, but paused when the sorceress lifted the sword in a trained stance. The edges of the blade glowed with the magic that helped lift it.

The witcher scoffed derisively. "That cunt gave you a few pointers, didn't he?"

"He did," Theila answered.

"What a joke. Though I suppose he was like me—got turned on by the sight of a wench handling a big sword. What else did he teach you?"

"That silver is for monsters."

The witcher stepped towards her. "Oh, I'll show you a real monster."

Theila was nervous. True, Undevar had given her brief lessons on swordsmanship, but that had been so long ago. And the only witcher she had fought had been the one that'd taught her.

"I can hear your heart beating," the witcher jeered. "You're scared." His blade whistled as it cut the air. Theila brought the silver greatsword up to meet it, but the witcher changed its path with absurd speed. Its tip dug into her skin in a long, shallow cut across her stomach. Crying out, the sorceress nearly dropped the silver blade and backed away.

"Looks like he didn't teach you well enough," the witcher mocked. "You're going to have to be a lot quicker than that, wench." No sooner had he finished his words, he dove at her with a thrust of his sword. Theila swung her own and knocked the oncoming point aside. She whipped it back around arched its path upwards towards the witcher's neck. He ducked and, as he came up, brought his blade up with him. Theila parried, and parried again when he tried to divert his attack.

"Not bad," he mused when they paused. Theila pulled in labored breaths. Exhaustion, fear, and pain were weighing her down. "But how long can you last?"

"Until you're dead," she hissed, and then released the blade. Instead of dropping to the floor, it hovered in a faint blue aura. Then, it shot at the witcher. He sprang aside, and then turned just as it curved back to come at him again.

Theila guided it with words spoken under her breath and strokes of her arm. The witcher fought back against the flying blade. It came at him again and again, driven by a tireless force. Finally, he threw it back with a boom of Aard. In the brief opening he had created for himself, the witcher turned and slashed and the guider of the blade. Theila quickly vanished, letting the witcher's sword cut into the fading glimmer in her wake.

But when she reappeared, she saw that the witcher had chosen to run. She saw his retreating back shrink down the wing and raced after him. When she turned the corner, he was waiting there for her.

She could have never braced herself for what he did.

Theila saw his arm swing out as he threw something. She knew it wasn't a bomb because it was much too big. Something trailed behind it as it flew through the air.

She realized it was a head.

In her horror, her mind froze up. The silver blade clattered to the floor and the sorceress shielded herself with her arms. She felt it collide painfully against her before it hit the ground with a dull thud. With her arms still raised, her breaths coming in strained, heavy gasps, she slowly looked down.

The head was on its side. It was a horrific, grisly sight. Death had turned its skin pale and waxy and its hooded eyes white. There was blood staining its long hair and beard. When Theila saw the gold clamps, she let out an agonized sob. Her knees gave away and hit the stone.

"That's what you came back for, isn't it?" she heard him say, though his voice was muffled under the harsh ringing that had returned to her ears. "For your dear, sweet Undevar. Not so handsome now, is he? They took the rest of him to Hindersfjall, probably to give him a criminal's welcome."

She couldn't bear to look at him this way, but she couldn't tear her eyes from it. The ringing was louder now—it all but drowned out the witcher's voice. Her breaths came in hard, heavy gasps, and it felt as though she were pulling icy water into her lungs.

The witcher was coming towards her. She couldn't hear his steps, but she could feel them through the floor. Finally, her eyes crept up. When they looked up to the witcher, they were glowing. Broken rock clattered on the ground as the entire keep began to shake. She rose from the floor as if lifted by some unseen being. A pulse rippled from her, causing the keep to shudder under the tremor.

The witcher made to grab at her throat, but she clasped both hands around his wrist. A trail of smoke rose from underneath her fingers as the leather and metal of the gauntlet began to sizzle. He pulled his hand back, but when he did, a powerful ripple erupted from the sorceress. It hit him like a charging beast and sent him crashing through the wall. In the room he landed in, there was a pool. Soft light danced on the walls and ceilings, coloring the room in an atmospheric shade of blue.

Amidst the curtain of crumbling dust, the sorceress emerged through the wall. Her eyes were still aglow, and her hair was lifted by some invisible wind.

"You thought you could break me?" her voice boomed out.

Instead of answering, the witcher attacked her once more. No longer did his blade swing restrained. It came at her in full force.

All Theila did was lift her hand as if to catch it. But the metal never met her skin. It came to an abrupt stop for only a brief moment. And then, with a piercing shriek, it shattered.

The witcher dropped the empty hilt. His body flashed briefly with Quen. A bone dagger was pulled from its sheath. He flew at the sorceress, the point of his dagger aimed for her throat.

Theila threw her hands forward, palms out. The air pulsed as the shockwave ripped through it. The witcher was flung back, and water was thrown up as he crashed into the pool. She quickly advanced to the water's edge and casted a shield that encased its surface like a sheet of ice. Theila could see the witcher sealed underneath. His hands pressed flat against the shield. He began beating at it. The witcher would lose breath, fall unconscious, and eventually drown. It was an easy death, and Theila wasn't going to give him that.

She focused on the water, feeling the Chaos surge wildly through her. It mixed with her rage. Bubbles rose from the pool to cluster against the shield. More and more appeared. The room began to grow warm as the heat from the boiling water seeped into the air.

Still, she wouldn't stop. She continued to scald the water. The fists had stopped beating against the shield. They had stopped a while ago.

Her body began shaking, convulsing, as Chaos continued to pour out of her in torrents. The keep trembled. Stone began to crumble and collapse. Theila found that her body was out of her control. Something wouldn't let her go. No—it was her. _She_ didn't want to stop. The keep was on the verge of collapsing over her, but that didn't matter. Maybe it was even what she wanted.

Something touched her. Theila flinched. A hand rested against the small of her back. He used to always place his hand there, and then lean in and whisper.

He whispered to her now. "Theila," his hushed voice soothed to her. "Stop."

She inhaled deeply. The blinding glow left her eyes, and the keep grew still. Panting, Theila turned to see who had whispered to her. No one was there.

The air smelled awful. Tendrils of steam rose from the water. Theila took one glance at the dark figure in the pool and left. She made her way slowly to the hall. With every step, her legs threatened to give away.

He hadn't been standing there. She should have known better. He wasn't there. He was out in the hall, lying there. Just a…

Theila stopped when she saw him. Then, slowly, she continued. She could see his face as she approached. Once, his skin had glowed with life. His eyes, even mutated, always managed to capture hers in their jovial warmth. But now it was all gone. His face had dulled to an inhuman gray. His sunken cheeks and vacant eyes reduced him into nothing but a rendition of death. He was terrifying to look at. Theila's heart raced, and suddenly she quickened her steps and walked past him. She went back down to the end of the wing. At the doorway of the bedroom, Theila stopped and looked around.

If these walls could have spoken, they now had two stories of ruin to tell. Theila's eyes fell onto the blood patch on the floor, and then onto the bed. The sheets were still tangled. The sorceress stepped around the blood and pulled the blanket from the bed. She then returned to the hall. To him.

She kept her eyes forward as she wafted out the blanket and draped it over him. Then, with careful, delicate hands, she pulled her hands in under him, tucking the blanket beneath. With her hands cupped underneath, she gingerly lifted him from the ground.

The blanket hid the blood and waxen skin. Still, through the cloth, the outline of a face emerged. Theila couldn't take her eyes off of it as she carried him back down the hall. She bit down hard on her lower lip, holding in the scream.

Theila set him down at the foot of the bed. She paused, and when she was finally able to tear her eyes away from the mound beneath the blanket, she came to the window. Through it, she could see that it was dawn. Glass outlined the edges of the window in jagged shards. The flowers were gone. In her Sight, they had been lined on the sill as they'd always been. Now all that remained were shattered pots. Dirt spilled over the sill and onto the ground. Freesia blossoms were scattered around like corpses.

She lifted a violet flower from the sill and twirled it between her fingers, watching the petals rotate in the growing light. Turning back, she lifted the flower to her nose as she walked back to the bed. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, keeping a cold distance from the mound.

Theila closed her eyes, lowering the flower. That witcher had been right. This had been the bed they had spent many a night on. Undevar had often teased her, warning her not to expect much because he was an old man. But then she would close her eyes and he would be there, that witcher she had been looking for.

He wasn't there now. Theila felt old.

* * *

 _I can bleed now; see the wound now_

 _Die this time around_

 _Can't live forever; won't see the end of time_

 _You promised me ten thousand years_

 _Now I'm trapped and I can't get out_

 _I'm losing grip, can't figure out how_

 _You said I would swim, never drown_

 _You said I'd never be buried underground_

 _My breath would always breathe in and out_

 _Your love makes me immortal_

 _Your love made me immortal_

"You Said"—Eurielle

* * *

 _ **Yeah I've almost forgotten what it's like to be tired all the time...**_


	53. Chapter 53 - Bodies on Display

_**I'm not dead. Well, only a little.**_

* * *

"Who is he?" Kozin asked when he heard her approach.

Theila stopped at the pool's edge beside him. Kozin's eyes flickered over to her and noticed that she was staring into the water, but not at the body. "No one important," she dismissed coldly.

Kozin paused. He called for the others. Cayessa let out a sharp gasp upon seeing the body. Tucking her protectively behind him, Kozin told Andryk and Oslan that they would need to fish out the corpse and send it off.

"Why?" Theila demanded immediately. Kozin looked at her. Rage cut deep lines through her face. "That's the least of what he deserves!"

"This isn't about what he does or doesn't deserve," the witcher replied. "This is about how we treat the deceased, be it family or enemy. To scorn the fallen by hauling them around like trophies or leaving them to rot would be to scorn the late grandmaster, who would have never allowed such disrespect under his watch."

Theila didn't respond. Then, she looked at him only briefly to say, "Do what you want," before leaving.

As the sounds of her steps receded, Andryk said, "Isn't that what we do te monsters?"

"That doesn't count, you div," Oslan mumbled back.

"Kozin." He felt Cayessa tug gently at his arm. "I saw it in her mind. He…" Kozin saw her eyes dash to the pool and back. "He's the one who killed the grandmaster."

"Then it's fittin' that Theila delivered him his comeuppance," Andryk said. "Though I'm a wee bit flapped I didn't get te stick the fucker through meself." He looked at the water. "Still… that's the one that did it. I heard ye, Ko, but it still don't feel right—sendin' him off like we will with the masters."

"It's what he would have done," Kozin replied. "And besides, I doubt we'll find him waiting in the same halls as our masters." He came up to the pool's edge and lowered himself into the water. Wading his way to the dark form, Kozin said, "Help me haul him up, won't you?"

* * *

She was nowhere to be seen as the pyre burned. Ko turned away as the flames continued to flare brightly and returned to the hollow keep.

He found her in the atrium—the open-ceilinged chamber at the back of the keep. Sea gods were carved as reliefs into the pillars that lined either side of the room, and an altar to Freya was at the very end. Theila stood before the altar with her back to him. She wore a heavy, dark blue cloak that just almost brushed against the ground.

At first Kozin wondered where it had come from, but remembered the times Undevar had lightheartedly joked how half his space was constantly being taken up by Theila's things. As spacious as the keep was, the grandmaster could have easily found a spare room to move it all into, but he never did.

"Hindarsfjall," Theila said aloud, breaking through Kozin's thoughts. "That's where we're going. Bring Cayessa." When she turned, Kozin saw that the blanket and the mound underneath had been placed on the altar. His eyes returned to the sorceress, and she looked different to him—no longer ageless.

"Theila," he began.

"Let's not waste any more time," she cut in.

"A long time ago, when I was going through hard times, you offered to talk."

Theila lowered her eyes, reaching up to adjust the brooch at the base of her neck. "We can talk later, Kozin. After we get him back." She stepped forward and closed the distance between them. Her hands cupped the sides of his face, and she offered him a warm smile. Kozin, for that brief moment, felt safe. "I know I haven't been acting like myself, but I'm still here. I'm still here in case you need me, okay?" Kozin felt her hands pull him, and ducked his head down. Theila lifted her face up to kiss his forehead. "I know you miss him too. These past few days, I haven't been the stronger one out of the two of us. I needed you to be, and you pulled through for me. Can you do that for me one more time when we go to Hindarsfjall, Kozin?"

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest.

It was quiet in Freya's chamber. Sunlight poured in through the open sky, falling over the altar and the goddess's statue that stood protectively over it. Theila pulled herself away. "Get Cayessa," she reminded him. "We need her help transporting the masters."

Kozin hesitated. "You don't need to worry about her," Theila said. "She's seen plenty of bodies—many in far worse shapes than you can imagine."

"I know that," Kozin answered. "But there'll be a lot of Skelligers around. They won't be happy with what we're going to do."

"I won't let anything happen to her, and I know you won't either." The sorceress smiled. "It's sweet how protective you are of her. It reminds me of…" She stopped herself. Then, pulling the cloak tighter around herself, Theila stepped around Kozin and left the atrium.

Kozin took one last glance at the mound on the altar, and then followed after her.

When they found Cayessa and explained their objective to her, Andryk and Oslan overheard. Naturally, they wanted to come along too. Theila shot their arguments down, telling the two that they were to return to Verden to ready the others. "The less people we bring along, the better," Theila explained. "We don't want to get noticed."

She opened portals that sent them back to the Continent. Then, she opened another that brought her, Cayessa, and Kozin to a discreet location on the shore of Hindarsfjall. Kozin led them to a small village. It wasn't where the masters were, but even the folk here knew of the dead witchers. Theila told the others to wait outside the inn.

She turned to Cayessa. "Keep him hidden," she told the younger sorceress. "Anyone who looks at him will be able to tell he's a witcher." As she headed into the inn, Cayessa turned to Kozin with worry in her eyes.

"I'll be fine."

"Fine? Don't be stupid," Cayessa insisted, grabbing his hand and retreating into the shadow of the building. "Everyone here hates witchers now." Her eyes slid to his shoulder. "You need to hide your swords."

 _"What?"_

"They're the most telling sign!" She held out her hands, as though expecting Kozin to unstrap them and plop them into her waiting palms.

"I need them!" Kozin hissed back. "What if Theila runs into trouble in there?"

"We'll all be in trouble if people find out who you are!" She shot him a glare that was final. With an aggravated grunt, Kozin unbuckled his sword straps and pulled the weapons from his back. Cayessa took them and, after looking around, hauled them to nearby wagon. The horse tied at the front swung its head around to give her a curious glance.

"Cay!"

"We'll get them back!" Cayessa assured. She scanned Kozin again. "Your medallion." He put a hand over it and stubbornly shook his head. "I'll hold onto this one," she told him, holding out her hand again.

Kozin gritted his teeth, and then finally pulled it over his head. _"Don't_ lose it."

"Couldn't get rid of it if I tried," Cayessa said, and Kozin had a feeling she was no longer referring to the medallion. Annoyed he crossed his arms and glanced towards the entrance of the inn, feeling empty and vulnerable.

"You still look like a witcher," he heard Cayessa mumble.

"Cay, I'll be fine."

"What if I transform you into a little bird? Just for a while?"

Kozin dropped his arms and advanced towards the sorceress. He saw her lips press together and backed away. "What if I fly away?" he challenged.

"You wouldn't," she replied defiantly.

"How are you so—?" He heard footsteps, but his eyes were still on Cayessa. He saw fear cross her face, and suddenly everything became _different_. The world as he knew it was gone, but he was too busy fluttering his useless wings and falling through the air to take much notice of it all. He felt something solid catch him. Kozin tried to orient himself up into a sitting position, but found that the entire structure of his body had changed. Everything had changed. For one thing, Kozin could see so much more, not realizing that it was because his eyes were now on either sides of his skull.

He saw the sky, the trees, and the grass all at once. They had all grown to tremendous proportions, and it was terrifying.

Kozin tried to stand, shout, _do something_. Whatever limbs he was flailing were not doing what they should have done. He lost balance and fell over, onto whatever soft, warm thing was underneath him.

A shadow darkened him. Something pressed up on top of him. The pressure wasn't enough to hurt him, but kept him pinned in place. Wind brushed him as he was turned. Then, Kozin found himself looking into a familiar face—only it had grown into an entire wall in front of him.

"Kozin," Cayessa whispered. Even her small little breaths puffed strongly against his face. "You need to calm down. It's just a little spell. I'll reverse it in a minute."

 _Spell?_ Kozin wanted to yell. _You really_ did _turn me into a—!_

"Oiye, miss!" a voice boomed out. Fingers wrapped around Kozin's tiny body, and he was quickly whisked behind Cayessa's back. "What'eya doin' out here on yer lonesome?"

"Never you mind," Kozin heard Cayessa reply.

"Jus' makin' sure is all," the man said. "Thought ye looked a little lost, standin' on yer own in the shadow of this here inn."

"I'm fine. I'm… I'm waiting for my husband to… finish a delivery."

"Eh… If ye say so."

Footsteps receded from where they were. Kozin heard Cayessa let out a slow breath. He reached down and gave the side of her hand a little nip, which elicited a shrill, "Ow!" from the sorceress. She quickly brought him back out, still holding him in her hand like a doll. "There's no need for that!"

Kozin didn't respond, not that he could. He glared at her as best he could with his beady, wide-set eyes.

"Not yet," Cayessa insisted. "Not until Theila gets back and we can get moving. Just in case, Kozin. I don't want anyone seeing your eyes."

He nibbled at her hand again, softer this time but with enough force to convey his annoyance. Cayessa moved him onto her shoulder. "Oh it's not so bad," she said dismissively. "Just be a good little bird and sit still. And don't you even _think_ about flying away."

Flying away was the last thing Kozin had in mind, especially with the view he had been graced with. Perched on Cayessa's shoulder, he was at a favorable angle to peer right down the sorceress's loose collar. He meant to grunt with satisfaction, but it came out as a cutesy cheep. But he wasn't interested in just looking. Using his small talons to delicately grip the blouse, Kozin clambered down from her shoulder.

"What—?"

His little feathered body disappeared as he burrowed underneath her collar. Kozin expected Cayessa to try and dig him out. Instead, he felt her shift and say, "If that's what'll make you settle down, then fine."

Content, Kozin nestled into his very warm and very soft resting place. No, there _certainly_ was no need to fly away.

They waited for a few more minutes. Then, Kozin heard the door to the inn open and Theila step out. The sounds of her steps were soft against the grass. She stopped next to them and paused. "Cayessa," she said, her voice touched with panic. "Where's Kozin gone?"

At the mention of the witcher's name, a small head popped up from Cayessa's blouse. Kozin saw Theila's eyes snap immediately to him. Her eyebrows rose with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"Turn him back," she told Cayessa. "We're heading out."

"But he's so much easier to manage this way."

"Cayessa."

Kozin wasn't quite ready to be turned back either. Sadly, he felt Cayessa gently grab him and lift him out. She set him on the ground. The blades of grass were taller than he was. He heard Cayessa say something, and sudden disorientation seized him as he returned to his normal size. Kozin managed to catch his footing just before he could eat the ground.

"Are you okay?" Theila asked.

"Fine," he answered faintly.

"Where are your swords?"

Kozin nodded towards the wagon. Theila looked to it. "Perfect," she said. She went over and began untying the horse.

"That's someone else's!" Cayessa protested.

"We need it," Theila replied simply. With a nod towards the body of the wagon, she ordered, "Kozin, get in the back. Cayessa, sit up with me."

Kozin and Cayessa glanced at each other. Cayessa tossed the medallion to him, and then each took their respective places on the wagon. The body was filled with crates of dried spices and padding to keep them from jostling. Kozin wrinkled his nose at the cacophony of scents that filled the air. He pulled the swords over his lap and leaned back against a crate as the wagon rolled over the bumpy ground. The noises of the inn's inhabitants grew more and more faint as the horse pulled them away. After a while, Cayessa asked where they were headed.

"Larvik," Theila answered.

"Are you sure that's where they are?"

"Yes. There were a few men in that inn back there who were part of the raid. They knew where the masters were taken." Suddenly, Theila's voice became disheartened. "I had to sit on one man's lap… do a lot of pretending. Eventually they were willing to tell me enough." Kozin kept his eyes glued to the crate in front of him as he listened. The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

It had only been a day since the end of the raid, and still there were the clamors of victory feasts. They were so loud that Kozin could hear them from Larvik's keep. He was glad Theila knew nothing of it… for now.

Where were the bodies being kept, he wondered. Certainly not in the keep, near where people ate and drank. They were trophies, but they were also icons of fear.

As they neared Larvik and the keep of Hindarsfjall's jarl, they were stopped once by men of the jarl's hird to be questioned. Theila answered. Kozin felt his medallion jump to her words. The men did not hold them for too long, and soon the wagon was moving again.

Kozin heard the grating of the ground underneath the wheels change as the wagon moved over paths more tempered. They were close to the keep now. Suddenly, his ears picked up the sharp stretch of leather as Theila jerked on the reins. The horse came to an abrupt stop, and Kozin shot out a hand to catch himself. The sorceresses' heartbeats became rapid, thuds in his ears.

"What's going on?" he demanded, forgetting for a second that neither woman could hear him. Then, through the stone on his ear, he asked Cayessa what had happened.

 _They… they're on the battlements_ , she answered him.

 _They?_

 _Two of them._ Even as voiceless words in his head, Kozin could hear her anguish. _They're hanging from the battlements._

This time, Kozin felt his heart judder. Their bodies had been strung from the wall like decoration—like the heads of game mounted on walls. Kozin felt sick to his stomach—a gut-wrenching sensation he had not felt in a long time. _Which ones are they?_

"Ruadh and Brimir," he heard Theila say aloud. "They both have heads." The wagon moved again, but this time it had changed course. "We need to get them down without anyone noticing. I imagine everyone is inside. In the meantime, I need to find out where they're holding the grandmaster."

Theila stopped the wagon as soon as she had found a spot discreet enough for her. Kozin heard her walk around. Then, the canvas covering the back of the wagon was pulled aside. "Help Cayessa take the masters down from the wall," she told him. "I'll go inside the keep and look for him."

"You can't just go in there on your own," Cayessa said.

"Few will notice me, and those who do won't remember. I need you two to stay out here and do what I told you. It shouldn't be too difficult. Feasts are atmospheric—they make the guards lazy too. At the same time, try not to be seen."

The golden-haired sorceress's brow furrowed in a glare Kozin knew all too well. "You can't just—."

"Cayessa," Theila briskly cut in. "You know better than to argue with me." She turned back to Kozin. "The sun will start to set soon. It'll be best to work in the cover of dark, but don't wait too long. As soon as I get him out of the keep, we have to leave." To no one in particular, she added quietly, "Good luck," and disappeared.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cayessa leaning against the wagon. He looked at her, a sly remark on his tongue. It quickly died unspoken when he saw the somber expression on her face. Their eyes met.

"She's so cold," Cayessa said softly. "I understand why, but… I just hope she'll come back."

Kozin thought back to the moment in Freya's chamber. "She will," he reassured.

"And what she's doing now?" Cayessa challenged. "It's so brash. Dangerous. The Theila I knew wasn't like this."

"They took him, hauled his body to the keep like some prize. Like some stuffed bear to tell of the strength of the ones who felled him. The grandmaster doesn't deserve that, Cay. He's not a keepsake—he was a man with a voice and a heart. Theila wants him back, no matter what the cost." He paused as he crossed his arms. "What would you do? What if it was me in there instead of the grandmaster?"

"Don't say that," Cayessa replied sharply. Kozin was silent as he sat on the back of the wagon. Cayessa sidled up against him. "People can be so awful," she whispered. Kozin unraveled his arms and wrapped one around her. She was warm at his side.

"Where will I go now?" he asked.

"You can stay with me," Cayessa answered. "At the tower. Anytime. All you have to do is ask."

"I'm a witcher, Cay."

"So? What kind of excuse is that? Does being a witcher mean you _have_ to subject yourself to a life of loneliness and danger?" Her eyes hardened. "Or is that just a placeholder for what you really want to say?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Cayessa pulled herself away from him and scooted off of the wagon. "I've stopped looking into your head a long time ago. Mostly because you didn't like it," she said, distancing the two of them with a few steps. "And partially because I'm afraid to see what you do when you're not with me."

Not this _again_. "So you've never dropped the stereotype that witchers are uncivilized beings that chase after every desire that happens to cross their path? With no concept of devotion or loyalty?"

"Maybe," Cayessa admitted angrily. "But I also know that you have nothing to be loyal to. What is this thing that we have?" She turned around to face him. "What is it? I've seen lovers, and always they have something they move towards. But we have nothing except perpetual years. You'll never propose to me, and we'll never start a family. You'll keep telling yourself that you're a witcher, and I'll keep telling myself I'm a sorceress. And then what?" She motioned towards the wall with a weary arm. "We just wait until one of us dies?"

"So all this time we've had together—you haven't been satisfied with that?"

"I'm trying to look ahead!" Cayessa's arms dropped to her side. Her shoulders sagged. "Is _this_ what we have? Just arguing all the time? And then kissing and making up just so we can start all over again?"

Kozin stood. He closed the distance between them and trapped the sorceress against his chest. "No," he told her. "We just argue because we care too much." It was bullshit, to him at least, but he wanted to make her feel better. He felt her relax against him. "It's getting dark. Let get them down."

They left the wagon behind and headed towards the keep, staying out of view from any eyes atop the battlement. At the base of the wall, they looked up. The bodies were still far above them.

"I can get us up on that wall," Cayessa said. "Then we'll haul them back and get them back to the other witchers. Are there any guards up there?"

"The coast is clear," Kozin told her. "But I hear their steps. There are a few patrolling around, so we need to be quick."

"Then let's go." Cayessa turned to face him. "Hold onto me."

"You don't even need to ask."

Short-distance teleportation, Kozin soon found out, as far worse than traveling by portal. He tried concentrating on the feeling of Cayessa wrapped in his arms, but in the next instant that feeling was gone. All feeling had gone, except for a split second of the most intense light-headedness he had ever felt. Then reality returned around him, pressing his skull back together. Kozin realized that they were now on top of the wall—the setting sun could be seen in the distance, casting deep shadows across the landscape. The wind up here was stronger. It pulled at his collar and hair.

Cayessa shifted against him. Kozin loosened his arms from her and turned towards the edge of the wall. He listened to the footsteps of the guards, pinpointing their distance relative to him. They still had time.

Thick cords of rope wrapped around the merlons of the battlement. Kozin leaned through the embrasure and looked down. The ropes ran down along the wall, weighed down by the dead witchers. Kozin took a cable and, with one heavy drag at a time, pulled it up. Slowly, the body at the end ascended.

Finally, it was pulled up. Kozin grabbed the body by the armor plating and hauled it over the wall. He let out a slow, labored breath when he recognized the man within the dead face.

He knew Cayessa would say something and quickly muttered, "Next one," and pulled the second rope.

The two masters were laid side by side. Dried blood tangled their hair and beards. Kozin knelt by them and closed their milky eyes. There was no time to sit still and grieve—not for him, anyway. "Cay," Kozin said. "Take them back to Verden. Tell the others that the grandmaster will be there soon."

The sorceress crouched next to him. Instead of arguing, she lifted a hand and propped it gently under his chin. "Before I go," she told him. Kozin felt magic seep from her hand, climbing up through his face and pooling at his eyes. It was a strange, foreign sensation. He couldn't describe it.

Kozin saw Cayessa's expression change. She looked confused. Upset, even.

"What did you do?"

"Theila told me you had blue eyes." Cayessa rested a hand against his cheek. She studied his face. "I've only ever known you as a cat-eyed witcher, never an ordinary man." Cayessa inhaled deeply, and then continued, "It's only an illusion. After a few hours it'll wear off. I want you back with me before then."

"Aye."

Cayessa teleported the masters down to the wagon. Then, she opened a portal and led the nervous horse through. After the vortex closed, Kozin lost track of her and became completely alone.

No, he wasn't alone. Theila was somewhere within the keep, surrounded by strangers and her own anguish.

Kozin heard footsteps coming closer and dropped over the wall, his fingers clinging tightly to the edge. Then, he let go. He let himself fall a short distance before catching onto a small indention in the stone. Kozin swallowed down a grunt as the momentum wrenched his shoulders. He dug the tips of his boots into the cracks. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he surveyed his height from the ground. It was close enough.

He let go of the cavity with one hand and twisted his body. After a short countdown in his head, Kozin kicked off from the wall. He let his knees buckle as he hit the ground and rolled over his left shoulder to avoid his sword hilts.

As soon as he came up, Kozin hugged the nearest wall and sought shelter within its shadow. Even with his eyes changed, everything about him screamed "witcher" to even the most oblivious.

His heart dropped when he realized he'd have to leave his swords somewhere. Kozin told himself that once he found Theila, they'd take Undevar out of here and grab his swords on the way.

There was a small courtyard surrounded by a parapet. The straw-stuffed dummies and arrow-laden boards suggested that it served as a training ground. Kozin vaulted over the parapet and found a pile of leftover straw to stash his weapons in. His armor was next to go. Its design was a derivative of the grandmaster's armor, something that everyone here had likely seen.

Kozin kept his dagger and tucked it in his belt. He felt wholly naked in his thin jerkin. The sounds of conversation and laughter that reached him as he entered the keep had him on edge.

He tried to avoid eyes as he made his way to the heart of the castle. Sooner or later, after curiosity was piqued enough and whispers were exchanged, the people here would realize that no one knew this black-haired stranger. No one invited him.

It wasn't hard to find where Undevar was. All Kozin had to do was follow the smell of death. They had brought the body into one of the main halls. Not the one where the food and drink were being served. Of course not—it wouldn't do to have guests feast with a vile corpse in view.

Even if there was no food there, the hall was far from empty. Men, always with tankards in hand, populated the large chamber. Some courted the women serving ale while others jeered. A fistfight had broken out in one corner with cheering spectators forming a wall around the contenders.

Though the volume of the hall was loud enough to break windows, Kozin heard her voice above it all.

"And what is he planning to do with it later?"

"Dunno. Stuff it, mayhaps? Or hang 'im from the wall with the others," her companion replied.

"I see."

"Real monster of a man, that witcher was," the man continued. "Screamin' and spittlin' like a rabid dog. Toughest kill I ever had, I tell ya." He was trying to impress Theila by regaling his deeds in taking the last of the Bear witchers down, unaware of the irony.

Theila appeared calm on the surface, though Kozin could feel a prickle in the air like the warning of a thunderstorm. "I dislike the displaying of a cadaver so baldly like this. It makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps the jarl could move it someplace a bit more undisclosed?"

"If it bothers you, my lady, then we could find somewhere else to go?"

Theila ignored his remark and continued, "And why remove his head?" The anger was starting to seep into her voice. Kozin started pushing his way through to her. "Such a horrible thing to do. And so unnecessary."

"Was that witcher's idea," he replied. "He had some deal with the jarl, so he got to keep the head. Shame, innit? Think it would have made good décor on the walls?"

That insult was his last. The prickle turned into sharp zap. Kozin blinked. It had happened too fast. All that remained next to Theila was steaming air. The bitter, acrid stench of charred flesh stained the air.

Silenced clutched the hall in a suffocating squeeze. The ones closest withdrew in horror. Her eyes immediately met his. They too were wide, shocked at the demon that for a second had been let loose.

"I… I couldn't stop myself." Soft words tinkled through the silence like shattered glass.

Kozin flew forward and grabbed her arm. As if triggered by this movement, the hall came back to life as people realized that a murder had happened in their midst. But this wasn't a banquet of dainty aristocrats—it was a feast of Skelligers that, confronted with the choices of fight or flight, would always choose the former. They were hunters, and two beasts had just appeared among them.

Kozin heard them close in behind him. He whirled and pushed them away with Aard. The sound carried through the keep. He heard Theila cry out, "No!"

Their cover was gone, and any further damage was inconsequential. The jarl's men were already flooding into the hall. Kozin felt truly naked without his swords.

He backed away from the men, pushing Theila behind him towards the table that held the grandmaster's body. He looked back at her. There was conflict in the sorceress's eyes. She had come to reclaim the body of the man she loved so she could finally have closure. But Theila was practical, and she wouldn't trade Undevar's lifeless corpse over a living, breathing witcher.

Kozin saw this in her eyes. He chose for her. "Get him out of here, Theila," he hissed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of a sword and covered himself with Quen just before the blade could bite through his jerkin. The dagger flew from his belt. Kozin swiped it, purposely letting its blade fall short. The strike did the trick and caused his opponent to jump back.

Suddenly, he felt a tremor underneath him—one sharp shake, as though the keep had been struck. The windows began rattling like teeth.

 _"I could destroy them all."_ He had heard that voice before, that anger. _"It would be easy."_

Kozin turned. "Would he have wanted that?"

The rattling stopped.

There was no time left. Kozin glared at her one last time. "Get him out!" He wouldn't let her choose and ran into the clamor. He saw the flash from off the walls around him. Now, he was truly alone.

* * *

 _When all the heroes fall_

 _The world plays its wicked games_

 _And I am left defenseless_

' _Cause I know the sky's gonna say my name_

 _The sky's gonna say my name_

"Heroes Fall"—Hidden Citizens


	54. Chapter 54 - Do Right By Him

He had been conditioned, whenever attacked, to retaliate. Witchers faced the deadliest foes that the darkest abysses of the world had to offer, so to do anything else was to embrace death. This was the reflex he now had to fight against.

No armor. No swords. No fight. He was truly out of his element.

Kozin ran. He had never felt this fear before—the one spawned from knowing that everyone around him could and would kill him if his feet moved even a fraction slower. As soon as Theila was gone, he barreled through the crowd. He felt bodies hit and bounce off of him. Men with quick enough sense got out of his way, but they didn't avoid him for long.

Kozin was only just fast enough to outpace them, having picked up enough speed by the time he burst out of the hall. He could hear them behind him—hounds frenzied by the smell of prey. Undevar had beseeched him to see the humanity in them, but it was hard not to attribute such animalistic behavior to animals.

He had to get out of the halls, off the orthodox path. If he remained he would be run down. Something caught Kozin's eye and he stopped, hopping a few steps to erode his momentum down. Outside of the large, curved window was another a sizable distance away. The gap between them was made for the wide pathway below.

He was sure the other side of the keep was far less populated. And the bend that connected the two was still further up the hall. It was as unorthodox a route as he was going to get. He grabbed either side of the open window. As soon as his boot touched the sill, he kicked himself off. Gravity pulled him down, veering him away from the other window.

Kozin reached forward. His fingers felt stone and he squeezed until they hurt. His body crashed into the wall, smearing the creeping ferns into green stains across the stone. He ground the treads of his boots into the wall. Crushed fern made the stone slippery with pulp. His feet slipped, and Kozin gritted his teeth as he struggled to not lose his grip on the ledge. Finally, he found traction and pulled himself up through the window. As he did, he felt something hit him in the back—something like a sharp punch.

Kozin stumbled away from the window and reached back. He felt the hilt of a dagger jutting from his jerkin. What the hell? The cut flesh burned. Kozin cursed the steady arm of whoever had thrown the knife.

Brashly, he pulled the dagger out. His hand reached for the vial of swallow that was no longer there. Damn, he needed to get back to the training ground where his gear was!

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Kozin hurried down the hall. The wound bled freely and burned, but pain was a fickle thing to a Bear.

The layout of the keep was foreign to him. Kozin didn't know how to get to the training yard. All he was sure of was that it was on the west side of the keep. The sun had been setting in the horizon when he and Cayessa were on that wall.

Kozin turned the corner and found that he had come to the end of a wing—a dead end. Cursing sharply under his breath, he whirled around and saw that his little posse had caught up to him. Or so he thought. Startled, he raised the blade that was wet with his own blood.

The man quickly raised his hands, palms outward to show that they were empty. He was alone, Kozin realized.

"I'm not here to fight you, witcher," the man explained quickly.

"Then what the fuck are you coming up behind me for?" Kozin hissed.

"I-I just wanted to talk."

"I've got a fucking mob after me! Got no time to stop and chat!"

"It's not all of us," the man blurted out. "Not all of us. Some wouldn't be alive and well today if not for witchers. I would've lost my wife and bairn had one of your kin not helped me."

"It was enough of you to kill my grandmaster," Kozin spat.

"I know, but… but people need witchers, even if they spit at the thought of admitting it. Your people, they'll… return to the isles some day, aye?"

Kozin regarded the man with stony eyes. "If they do," he said slowly, "I won't be among them."

"That's fair," came the quiet response. Then, the man pointed down the wing. "Least I can do is help you escape. Behind that tapestry—there's a tunnel. Takes you underground but comes up just behind the wall."

"I need to go to the training yard," Kozin said. "West side."

"You can reach it once you emerge from the tunnels," the man replied. As Kozin turned, he heard him say, "I'm sorry, witcher."

Without turning, Kozin replied, "Not all of you."

* * *

Even with favorable winds, it took him two days to sail back to Verden. Kozin missed his mark when he hit the shores of the Continent and had to hike 20 miles along the coast before he finally found the witcher encampment. He was greeted by shredded trees torn up by the roots, cracked boulders, and earth so ripped that rich orange clay had been upturned. It was as though the mother of all storms had raged in the area.

Kozin saw a small figure racing towards him. As it neared, he spied the flailing tongue and bulbous eye of a familiar, ugly creature. When Aegis reached him, she practically jumped up onto him, her paws digging dangerously near his groin. Then she kicked off of him, scurrying in excited circles.

Her other half appeared soon after. "Fuck me!" Andryk cried out as he came jogging up to the two. "Felt like I was holdin' me breath fer the longest time, waitin' fer ye te get back!"

"What happened here?"

"Mate, _what happened here?_ Only the radgest fuckin' hen fight I'd ever seen!"

"Hen fight?" Kozin paused. "Cay and Theila?"

"Aye, who else? After Theila showed up with…" Andryk's voice faltered for a split second, before continuing, "with the grandmaster, that sorceress o'yers flew right up demandin' why ye hadn't come along. As soon as she heard ye'd been left behind at the keep, she dead lost her mind. Screamin' and cryin' in equal measure. Called Theila a murderer and said she'd gone and killed ye too. Then the radge lass tried te open a portal te get back te ye, but Theila shut it down." Andryk looked around at the mangled earth.

"That's when it went from messy te a right fuckin' mess. Cayessa turned te Theila—could've sworn the lass was fixin' te shoot fire from her eyes. She said, 'just because yer witcher's dead, doesn't mean I'll let mine join him.' Ko, I tell ye—in that moment Theila's emotions rippled through the air and we _all_ felt it. Then, chaos. Ground started writhin' and churnin' like somethin' buried deep underneath was tryin' te claw its way out. I've never seen two mages squarin' a go full out like that, much less get caught in the crossfire. And I fuckin' hope I never do again."

Kozin looked past Andryk's shoulder. "What about the camp? Was anyone hurt?" he demanded.

"Nothin' too bad, no." Then, Andryk grumbled, "Though yer wench threw a fireball and it clipped me little lass."

"Addie," Kozin snapped. "Cay and Theila. What about them?"

"Well…" Andryk stopped and caught Kozin by the shoulder before they could get any closer to the camp. "It wasn't a fair fight, see, with one bein' the master and the other bein' the pupil. And yer lass isn't built fer violence, so—."

 _"Addie_ ," Kozin cut in, his voice grating slowly through his teeth. "What happened?"

"Everyone's fine," Andryk prefaced quickly. "Nothing inflicted that time won't heal. But during the fight, Theila managed te land a solid blow on her. Knocked her out cold. And then, out o'nowhere, Os comes chargin' up. Theila lashed out at him too, but mate, I think she wasn't recognizin' anyone at that moment. Would've gotten Os real bad if he hadn't thrown up his Quen—and ye know how that fucker is with his Signs. He deflected her spell and tackled her onte the ground. Shouted fer rope."

The red-haired witcher's eyes bored holes into the ground. "We got rope. Didn't feel right—not after everything that's happened. But Os, he—I don't know, Ko. He said he saw somethin' in her, and if he hadn't done what he did, Cayessa would've… I don't know."

Kozin tried to swallow, but his throat felt dry. He passed Andryk.

The camp was deathly quiet. Oslan was sitting on the edge and rose when he spotted Kozin. "She's fine," the blond witcher said. "I have her lying down, but she's going to be perfectly fine."

"Theila," Kozin pushed.

This time, Oslan paused. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and jerked his head towards the other side of the camp. "If you're going to get near her, be careful."

Kozin couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was Theila they were talking about, not some rabid striga. "You can't treat her like she's some sort of feral animal. That's only going to make her worse."

"I think we're already at 'worse,'" Oslan countered. "You weren't here when it happened Kozin. If you saw what we all saw, you'd be treating her the same way too."

Suddenly, Kozin grabbed Oslan by the collar. "Os," he growled. "Don't fucking act like you know better. You had the luxury of being there when she died. You got to lay her down on that pyre while she looked like she was just asleep. Theila went back to the island and the only thing she found of him was his _head_. _"_

"So that excuses what she did?" Oslan asked. "What she did to Cayessa?"

Kozin scowled. "I want to talk to her."

"Don't be an idiot, Ko. That gag is staying on her."

"And what about Cay? Is she awake?"

Oslan gestured towards a nearby tent. "Not when last I checked, but you go. It'll do her good to see you. She's been doing nothing but fretting over you."

Cayessa wasn't asleep. Her eyes fluttered open when he pulled the tent flap aside. With the light outside casting a shadow over his front, she didn't recognize him at first. Then, when the interior of the tent fell dark again, Cayessa pushed herself up. "Kozin!"

"Not too fast," Kozin warned as he knelt down next to the bedroll. Cayessa ignored him and threw her arms around him to squeeze him tightly.

"I thought I lost you!" She looked up at him. "I thought I was going to… I can't believe she just left you to die."

"That's not what happened," Kozin said. "And even if it was, that doesn't mean you should've said that to her."

"I was scared!" Cayessa said. Her voice had climbed a few notes higher—it usually did whenever she grew defensive. "And worried about you! Why are you even taking her side?"

"Because Theila's lost everything in a matter of days." Kozin saw that Cayessa was about to make another remark and quickly cut her off. "Not just the grandmaster. Everyone she's ever loved is either dead or has turned on her."

"I didn't turn on her! She attacked _me!"_

"She was upset and lost control, just like you did. Except you're not the one gagged and tied to a tree like some prisoner."

"She…?" Horror crossed Cayessa's face. Kozin saw guilt hiding under the glimmer of her eyes. "Oslan told me she left."

"He told you that so you'd lie still," Kozin grumbled. "Because even though he was trying to protect everyone, he knew it'd make you sick."

"Why? Did he think she was going to kill me?"

Kozin didn't answer. Cayessa tried to get up, but the witcher held her down with an arm. "She won't want to see you."

"But I can't leave her tied up out there like that!" Cayessa stressed. "She must feel so ostracized… so _alone_. Just think of what that's doing to her mind! And…" The sorceress fidgeted and stared at the ground. "And I have to tell her that I… didn't mean what I said."

Kozin stood. "I'll tell her."

"She won't believe you," Cayessa said, drawing up her knees and cradling her head between her hands. "She'll just think you're lying to make her feel better."

"What makes you think she'll believe you either?"

Only silence met his question. Kozin stepped out of the tent. Once again, the haunting silence fell around him. Before heading towards the end of the camp, Kozin looked around as though he were about to do something illicit. Then he began walking. Soft steps padded after him. Aegis trotted to his side.

Kozin first spotted the cords of rope wrapped around the circumference of the tree. Above them, two arms were pulled back across the bark by the wrist. Kozin walked around the tree and saw her shadow staining the ground.

Aegis suddenly stopped, giving the tree a wide berth. A soft whimper rumbled deep in her throat.

Kozin saw her darkened eyes dart to the dog. Then they came up to his. They were the eyes of a stranger, yet Kozin saw that they still belonged to her. She tore her gaze away and refused to look at him as he crouched down next to her.

The loss of his guild seemed almost negligible compared to all the shit that had followed. The pain was only numbed by more pain. It seemed that Undevar wasn't the only one who had gone. "Theila," Kozin said quietly. "None of this is your fault." He refused to accept that he had lost both of his parents. Kozin wanted her back. He didn't want to be the stronger out of the two anymore.

Kozin reached forward and pulled her gag down. It almost felt like pulling the string from a witcher bomb.

He expected something to happen but nothing did. A terse energy tightened the air. It was coming from Aegis, whose short fur had risen around her scruff.

Even then, she wouldn't look at him. Her head was turned away, lowered so that her hair shrouded her face in heavy curtains. A low growl came from Aegis. Kozin glared over to her and was about to shush the noisy animal when a faint voice spoke.

"You're wrong." Kozin looked down and saw that Theila had turned her head. Shaded eyes bore into him through the slits in her hair. "I did this to him. He wouldn't have been grandmaster if it wasn't for me."

"Wh—." A flash of light suddenly blinded him. When it dimmed and his eyes readjusted, there was nothing but slackened ropes. A shout came from the camp. Aegis barked and raced back. Kozin rose and followed the dog, wondering why he wasn't feeling as guilty as he should have at her escape.

Back at the camp, Aegis was pacing nervously around the feet of her master. Andryk glared at Kozin. "She took the grandmaster's body and zapped off! What have ye done?" he demanded.

"What everyone here was too much of a coward to do," Kozin spat back, walking past Andryk without slowing. He came to the beach. The pale shore also bore scars of the battle that waged just a day prior. Kozin wondered just how large a scale the clash had been. He wasn't ignorant of the power sorceresses yielded, but he still found it hard to believe Cayessa and Theila were the ones who had ripped through the earth like paper.

And with every intent to hurt the other, as well. It was a side of them Kozin wish he hadn't seen. But it was something impossible to turn away from, especially when his very surroundings served as testament.

Kozin found a boulder that didn't belong on the shore, but it had been thrown so forcefully that half of it was buried in the sand. He sat on its scored top and took out his pipe. He reached into his pouch and took out a pinch of crumpled leaves.

Again, it was quiet. Kozin had expected much more of an uproar among the witchers. Then again, maybe they understood.

He was burning through his second chamber when footsteps crunched across the sand towards him. Someone sat next to him. After a short lull, Oslan spoke.

"I thought about what you said."

Kozin blew out a stream of smoke.

"Tried putting myself in her shoes. It's already been years, but it still hurts. You know, when… I thought I was okay, and that it was my witcher mutations keeping me from feeling what I should've. But then it hit me, and it was like a tidal wave." There was a pause. "How long have _we_ known the grandmaster? Only a few decades?"

"Can't even compare."

Oslan leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. His eyes, like Kozin's, were focused on the sea—towards some far off point. "I've started sympathizing with the rocks out in the water," he said. "Enduring battering after battering. When did the world start getting so fucked, Ko? I mean really fucked?"

"It's always been like this, Os. Somewhere along the way, we just got too old to be sheltered from it anymore."

"Aye, I guess you're right," the blond witcher muttered. "I just never thought we'd lose them like this. Or at all. Wish we could go back to when…" He trailed off, leaving both witchers to reminisce of simpler days when losing their lives to monsters was all they had to worry about.

Kozin reached down. His pouch was empty. It was time to go.

He went straight for Cayessa's tent and threw the flap aside. Inside, Kozin asked the sorceress to portal him back to the Bear keep. "Alone," he told her.

As Kozin stood at the entrance of the roaring vortex, Cayessa said, "Tell her I'm sorry."

"I will if she listens." Kozin stepped into the portal.

A strong sense of déjà vu overcame him as he looked up at the dead face of the keep. His last visit to the island had been for the very same reason. But back then he had been filled with uncertainty. It wasn't with him this time.

He walked through the remains of his home and came to the only room that held light. The garlands of vines crowning the edges of the open ceiling seemed to preserve Freya's chamber from the hollowness that consumed the rest of the keep.

He was lying on the altar before her. The stone semblance of Freya stood over him, slightly bent as though the goddess was silently watching over him. Undevar no longer looked like a corpse, and instead seemed like a man who could've awoken from deep sleep at any moment. He had been restored, whole again. The rot of death that once clung to him was cleansed. A gentle, tender magic had touched him.

She wasn't there. Kozin turned away, picking up soft noises from somewhere higher in the keep. He followed his ears, still unsure of whether to make his presence known or not. Part of him trusted her as he had always done, but the other part knew that she had been frayed thin.

The sounds came from Roffe's laboratory. Kozin stopped just beyond the doorway, listening. He heard the soft whirring of a machine powering up—the megascope. There was a click as the whirring grew smoother. Then came a creak of leather as someone took a seat in Roffe's chair.

Kozin dared to step behind the threshold, leaving the shadows just enough to see through.

The megascope was relaying a form within its parameters. Kozin knew it was a pre-recorded projection because of the man who stood inside the instrument. It was the same man who had stood by his side at the top of Sansira's Spire.

But although they shared the same face, this witcher was entirely different. His blue-gray form stood there as if waiting. His posture was boyish, tinged with a hint of sheepishness. The awkward pause stretched on for a bit longer, and then a woman's voice said, "It's running."

The witcher glanced towards a direction, looking into an invisible person's eyes, and replied, "Is it?"

"It's _been_ running."

"Ah… aye, I see," the witcher said hastily. He then looked forward and shifted on his feet. "Ah… well." He cleared his throat.

The crystal the message was projecting from must've been incredibly old. Even Roffe's state-of-the-art megascope was having trouble reading off of it. The image continued to flicker, at times disappearing entirely and then quickly reappearing. The voice would continue smoothly, and the brief moments when the man disappeared it was as though a ghost was speaking.

"Erm…"

"The crystal only has about two minutes of recording capacity on it," the woman suddenly said. "If you want to say something, say it."

"Aye… W-well… This is radge!" he suddenly said, glancing back over in that direction. "It don't feel normal talking to nothing."

"You're not talking to nothing. You're talking to her."

He fell silent, taking a few seconds to ponder. Then, he began, "Well… okay. Theila." His voice had gained a low, almost intimate rumble at the mention of her name. "I… er, hope your research has been successful. Fruitful. 'Course it'll be. You're a smart lass—." The witcher quickly gave his head a little shake and pulled himself back from the tangent. "Thing is, I know your field work will keep you over Yule, so I just wanted to send you something to… uh…" His voice suddenly became bashfully quiet. "To, I guess, remember me by." He straightened up and regained his voice. "So work hard, aye? I know you will. I'll be right here when you get back. See you next year… I love you." His final words came out clumsily, but there was sincerity within them.

Then he disappeared. The large leather chair, its back facing towards the door, didn't move. Finally, Kozin decided to break the silence.

"Didn't know he had that much of an accent back then."

The chair shifted but didn't turn. "He ended up spending a lot of time on the Continent," came the soft response.

"So I can look forward to that, then?"

"Maybe," Theila sighed, finally swiveling around to face him. "What are you doing here, Kozin?"

"Came to see if you were okay."

"I thought you'd be more concerned about Cayessa."

"Her wounds are smaller."

Theila closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against her temple. "I can't believe I lost it like that. What a stupid, stupid thing to do." Kozin took a step into the room. "I'm fine."

"You've been through a lot."

"I'm not made of glass."

"Metal breaks too."

Theila's eyes flew open. _"I'm fine!"_ she suddenly snapped, rising. Kozin immediately was on edge. "Enough trying to console me! I'm not some spoiled brat like Cayessa! I don't get upset at the slightest inconvenience!" She drew in a deep, tense breath and fell heavily against the seat. "Not again," she groaned.

"Theila—."

"Just go, Kozin. If you came for him, take him. Just leave me alone."

"I didn't come here for him."

Theila leaned back and turned herself towards the megascope. "Aside from your grandmaster, there's nothing left here."

Kozin gripped the back of the chair and swiveled it back. "Theila," he said. "It's time to talk."

The sorceress regarded him wearily. "Talk?"

"Aye. Tell me about the man in the megascope."

Theila stared at the empty space where his grayed out form had stood. "Once," she said slowly, "he told me he thought it poor to keep secrets from you. I haven't been doing right by him. At least I can do this." The sorceress stood and walked out of the laboratory. Kozin followed her.

The sounds of their steps followed them as they head back down to ground level. Kozin glanced at a slightly ajar door as they passed. Beyond it, he caught a glimpse of the communal sleeping quarters where the youngest of the witcher novitiates had roomed. Fleeting memories raced through his head of the nights when the three of them had been boys in that very room—huddled together at the foot of a bed, trying to avoid the sharp ears of the masters as they played dice until the early hours of morning. The walls, which had once been adorned by their treasured monster heads, were now bare.

Kozin looked back at Theila and quickened his steps to catch up with her. She led him to the grand hall. Half of the benches were missing—they now were the splinters and debris piled around the keep's entrance. Theila found one near the center of the hall and lifted her legs one after the other to sit down. Kozin settled himself across from her.

For a while, it looked as though the sorceress was fighting a silent battle with herself. She was still trying to pick her words carefully, trying to convey Undevar in the best light possible. But Kozin didn't want to hear propaganda.

"Understand, Kozin, how difficult it is to defy the standards you are raised on. To break away from the foundations you were built atop requires the ultimate courage. It took Undevar a long time to find that courage." Theila looked down, fiddling with her thin chain bracelet. "I believe I can be confident in saying that you've met many personalities during your travels. No one better can see the facets of humanity than those who have taken a step back—outsiders. Witchers. Then you know, Kozin, that sometimes people are just born foul, no matter how much guidance they are given thereafter."

Kozin nodded.

"And then there was him. He belonged on the opposite side of the spectrum—a man born pure, locked into an environment that was hell-bent on seeping foulness into his every nook and cranny. At first, he was too young to recognize right from wrong. Children are only followers. But as he became older, he began to question. Silently, of course. On the outside, he had to show no weakness… or, at least Valdre's definition of weakness.

"Try to put yourself in his mind, Kozin. His guild had defined him, structured his very identity. Yet there was some incessant, heretical voice within him that doubted. By the time I met him, he was a very conflicted, albeit determined, man."

Gently, Theila shook her head. "My words do him no justice," she said. "There is so much more than just anecdotes can convey. Let me show you, Kozin. Let me show you who Undevar was."

* * *

 _I remember the prison I built for myself_

 _You and I can tear it all down_

 _And let the past begin to melt_

 _I remember eternity_

 _And the love that light has shown_

 _I will fight for destiny_

 _Because you and I will never be_

 _Alone_

"I Remember"—Les Friction


	55. Chapter 55 - Weeding Out the Weak

Becoming spliced into someone else's memories was a strange experience. The only thing Kozin could compare it with were the visions that Gaunter had shown him. He saw things through the eyes of someone else, only this time he was merely a passenger.

He saw how the School of the Bear was under the leadership of Valdre. He saw what the grandmaster did to his novitiates. It did not stop at the Trial of the Grasses.

Through Undevar's eyes, Kozin witnessed the horrors that went on within the ring. Boys were only given a few days to recover from the Trial before they were pushed into that small arena. A metal gate covered the only other entrance. Something heavy moved behind it. Once the novitiate was trapped within, chain would grate and the gate rose. Heavy steps preluded a snout that emerged from the dark. The bear stepped cautiously out into the ring, its beady eyes focused on the anxious witcherling before it. Then a master would fire a crossbow bolt into its rump, eliciting an angry roar from the incited beast.

Survive. That was the requirement. Five minutes within the ring—survive.

Very few boys ever came out of that ring. It never ended cleanly. As the remaining waited their turn, they were forced to watch. They were told to learn from the mistakes, but all they saw was what would happen if they failed.

When it was Undevar's turn to enter, Kozin felt his emotions. Fear, confusion, desperation. But stifling it all was the overpowering desire to please the grandmaster.

His heart jumped when the bear bellowed at the sight of him. The tortured beast had long since learned to associate the sight of a young boy with pain and rage. It charged at him. Undevar dove out of the way and scurried to his feet as the bear swiveled its head and snapped its heavy jaws at him. Claws swiped and scored deep cuts across his back. The pain made him stumble and trip.

He rose to his feet again and ran. The ground shook. There was another roar. He was fighting back tears, imploring to himself why his grandmaster would do this to him.

Five minutes passed as an eternity of hell. All Undevar could do was run and pray to every deity that the bear would not pin him down because he had seen enough to know that it would be the end of him.

His prayers did nothing. Crushing pain engulfed his leg as the bear caught him by the ankle. He fell, smacking his chin against the ground and becoming dazed. He felt the bear come over him and twisted around to see the yellow teeth that would tear him apart. Hopelessly, he struck the beast's head again and again with his fists.

With one punch, his knuckle dug deep into the bear's eye. It raised its head and roared in agony. Before it could do anything else, a burst of fire shot across the air. Five minutes were up. The ground rumbled as the frightened bear retreated back into the darkness. The metal gate dropped behind it.

He had survived, but there was no victory. Undevar lay bleeding, agonized. His ankle had been broken—shattered under the crushing force of the bear's jaws. No one came in to help him. Someone snapped at him to hurry up and get out.

Undevar limped. Every little bit of weight he placed on his foot sent bolts of pure torment through his leg. Already, the mutations were working to accelerate the healing. It could only do so much, as most of the damage inflicted within the ring had not been physical.

When finally Undevar stepped out, the grandmaster congratulated him. It was then, at the grandmaster's words, that the boy who was only just shy of 11 years old burst into tears.

Instead of comfort, he was answered with the back of a hand against his face.

"You are _alive_ ," Valdre growled, his voice cutting through the ringing in Undevar's ears. "You differentiate yourself from the weak. You tread over blood and claim your spot among gods, and now you have the _gall_ to weep like some wench?"

He tried to stop crying. He wanted so desperately to prove to his grandmaster that he was worthy. Valdre did not forgive this offense so easily and sent him off with a harsh wave of his hand. "Get this one out of my sight," the old Bear growled. "And only bring him back when he's done mewling."

That night, Undevar lay in the infirmary alone. The resident mage did not bother coming down to help him, and the housekeeper that tended to him earlier had been yanked away by the wrist by a master. Undevar found that whatever he had been fed on that cliff allowed him to still hear her and the heavy thumping that nearly drowned out her voice. That had been hours ago, and she hadn't returned since.

He wanted so desperately to find refuge in sleep, but pain and stress held his leash tight. He wanted to cry while someone was there to reassure him, but he wouldn't let himself. This place had taught him that only suffering would follow if he gave in. Undevar couldn't be weak. He was among gods now.

* * *

Kozin opened his eyes. He was back in the hall. Raising his gaze, he looked around. The stone walls here looked no different than the ones he had seen through Undevar's eyes. As a boy, these walls always felt safe, comforting. Keeping the cold out. Even when he grew older, they still seemed to hold something within them—home. He had no idea such horrors had played out inside these same walls.

"I don't remember ever seeing that ring."

Theila spoke up. "One of the first things Undevar did as grandmaster was tear it down. The second garden—that's where it stood. Undevar saw fit to take the soil that been soaked with too much blood and nourish it into something useful." Theila's gaze swept over the hall. "This keep saw a lot of change before you came to it. Once, it was absolutely putrid. If Valdre is to be praised for anything, it's that he had a true talent for bringing perfectly normal boys down to his level. At the very genesis of Undevar's witcher life, he was taught that he was expendable. That his feelings were irrelevant—only his actions proved his worth. And if he wasn't worthy, he was nothing."

"Bear's concoction for the Trial of the Grasses is deadly enough," Kozin pointed out. "And Valdre saw fit to kill even more of his students?"

"He didn't care about training witchers to save people from monsters," Theila said. "And he had absolutely no interest in retaining and nurturing his students. All that mattered to him was weeding out the weak. If they didn't start out at his expectations, he didn't want them. Valdre would've sooner slain every novitiate by his own hand than have a single witcher leave the island that would mar his reputation." A bitter smirk appeared on the sorceress's lips. "I hated him dearly. The only thing keeping me sane from the very memory of him is knowing what agonized torture he would be in had he known what Undevar did with his wonderful, _godly_ guild."

Kozin was silent. He thought back to that moment by the windowsill with Undevar—back to what the grandmaster had told him about Valdre. If Bear had remained the way it was, Kozin would have never known Oslan or Andryk. He thought about the man he himself would've become, had he survived long enough to be a witcher.

How different the course of his life could've been. He would have never met Cayessa, which he would've preferred if that were the case. Kozin's skin crawled at the thought of that young, vulnerable sorceress crossing paths with a witcher like Malthe.

"You have to see more," Theila said. "See the whole story. Are you ready?"

Kozin nodded.

* * *

This memory was much further in the timeline. Undevar's ankle was no longer broken. It was winter. He was sitting in the hall that Kozin sat now, though by contrast it was filled to the brim with activity. The thunderous voices surrounded the young Bear, but it was all background noise to him. His eyes were focused on nothing in particular, and he didn't seem to be paying attention to the cider that was growing cold between his cupped hands.

Then someone plopped down onto the bench in front of him, breaking through the stillness of his thoughts. His hands tightened around the cider. Undevar blinked his eyes back into focus.

The boy across the table had dark auburn hair. He didn't look old enough to have started his seasons yet, but already there was a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe. It was pink, not white. The dark blot of a partially healed split lip discolored his mouth.

"You just get back from your first season?" the boy asked. Undevar nodded.

"When's your first?"

"Not for another two springs," the boy replied disdainfully, the corners of his lips curling down with contempt. "Reckon I'm more than ready to head out next spring. Ain't scared of anything out there. If I don't like the look of something, monster or man, I'll have 'em at the end of me sword." He sighed and plunked his arms heavily onto the wooden tabletop. The cider in Undevar's cup jumped. "But nay, the masters tell me. Have to stay 'til _they_ think I'm ready. Don't want me going out there and making a fool of meself."

"Don't get in over your head," Undevar said. "There's a lot out there they don't teach you about."

"Only been out one season and you think you're the master of all things, don't you?" the boy snorted scornfully.

"Up your arse, runt. I know more than you, at least."

"Fucker."

The conversation Kozin was witnessing surprised him. It was playful banter, and the way it reminded him of the lighthearted quips he, Andryk, and Oslan had thrown at one another during their boyhood years was jarring. He didn't expect that kind of familiarity in this foreign keep.

The conversation continued, eerily normal. The boy across from Undevar become more and more interested in what his older companion had to say about the world beyond the island. Undevar could describe his experiences in many shades. It seemed the grandmaster's knack for storytelling had existed since his youth. But Kozin could tell there was one hue Undevar kept from the boy—the most overbearing color that painted his time off the island.

Lonely. The Path did not offer companionship aside from temporary interactions. Those only lasted a blink—connections were broken as soon as backs were turned. No one was interested in getting to know a witcher, especially a Bear witcher. Whores offered nights of intimacy, but Undevar was no fool. He knew the caresses they laid on him were only soft for the coin he had proffered.

Frankly, Undevar wasn't interested in getting close to anyone. Relationships opened one to vulnerability, and vulnerability was weakness. At least, that's what his grandmaster had told him. Valdre was always right.

Kozin felt these thoughts run in the back of Undevar's mind as he spoke with the boy. Don't let Valdre down. This warning seemed to be hammered into the young Bear's mind, filtering every word he had ever said.

The boy snorted haughtily and dragged his arms from the table. "Know what else the masters suggested? They told me I ought to find someone to follow around my first season. Learn the ropes from. You don't seem like a bad choice."

Undevar took a swig from his cup to give himself time to consider. The masters had told him the same thing before his first year off the island. Of course, the witcher he had decided to shadow abandoned him after just a few days, having grown tired of the burden.

"Aye, you can tag along," Undevar decided. "Just try not to be a pain in my arse or get us both killed."

"No promises, mate," the boy replied jeeringly. He suddenly brought a hand up over the table, extending it towards Undevar. "Right. Soon as the ice thaws, we head out together."

Undevar reached out and firmly clasped the boy's hand. "Aye, we head out together," he agreed. "And one more thing—you'll be calling me 'master' while we're out there."

"Like hell I will. Give me your fuckin' name."

"Undevar. And what about you, runt?"

"Cahal."

* * *

It was finally in this boy that Undevar confided his deepest, undying worry. And it was Cahal who told him to approach the grandmaster about it. That was very much like the boy—confront head on. There was no point in pausing to deliberate. Blood and intimidation were Cahal's ambassadors.

Undevar had grown to trust his brother. Perhaps facing the grandmaster was the solution.

Within Valdre's study, Undevar's determination began to wane. His grandmaster did not offer him response at first. It made Undevar nervous. Had he shown weakness?

Finally, Valdre said, "In a few days' time, I will test you. And then you will know." Old cat eyes flitted to him, holding cold expectation.

"Aye, Grandmaster," Undevar answered quickly.

"Leave."

Cahal had waited, eager to know what the grandmaster told him. He was disappointed with the unexciting answer.

"Test? We're a little too old to be put up to training regiments, aren't we? Leave those to the runts."

"Doesn't sound like it'll be one of those, Cahal," Undevar replied.

Cahal shrugged. "Whatever it is can't be too bad."

But Undevar spent the next few days worrying. He began to doubt whether listening to Cahal had been wise. There was no way in knowing what Valdre had planned for him.

He found out three days later. The grandmaster summoned him and brought him to the ring.

Dread stabbed Undevar's heart when he saw it. Old memories kicked up, writhing like pained beasts. He remembered his one and only time in the ring. Was Valdre to pit him against a bear again? For how long this time?

Valdre signaled. The grated gate within the ring opened before Undevar was in the ring. Undevar watched what emerged from the darkness and immediately knew this was different. There was no bear.

There was a man.

Shocked, he looked up at Valdre. The grandmaster regarded him calmly. "You know what to do, Undevar."

"This…"

"What is it?"

The warning flashed in Undevar's mind again. He glanced into the ring. "This… is not what witchers do."

"And how is it not? Witchers kill monsters." Valdre gestured into the ring. "This one is a criminal, Undevar. With what he has done, this is more than he deserves. A vile degenerate such as this deserves to rot in the sewers until he can crowd the belly of a drowner, not earn the privilege of dying in battle. Well, Undevar? The day is only set to grow hotter, and I do not care to stand in the sun for too long."

"Aye, Grandmaster."

There was a new fear as Undevar stepped into the ring. This wasn't the same as when he knew a bear was waiting for him. This was no beast driven by simple instinct and primal emotions. This was a man with a name and as thoughts as complex as his own. Undevar was reminded of that when he looked ahead and saw those eyes gazing back at him.

And then he spoke. In a pleading voice, he told Undevar that he'd done nothing wrong. From outside the ring, Valdre retorted, "Such is the common tune of all lawbreakers, Undevar."

"Please, just listen to me! I haven't done—!"

"Let me put it this way," Valdre cut off loudly. "And now I address the both of you. Only one of you will be permitted to leave. The one who lives. That is all."

They looked at one another. In that shared second, they both understood.

This one was a criminal, Undevar reminded himself. Valdre had told him this. This man had done something—killed, raped, driven a dagger into the back of his brother. Undevar exhaled heavily.

Valdre had relinquished no weapons to either of them. If Undevar was going to prove his worthiness, he would have to earn it in the rawest, most feral way.

It began slowly. Both men circled the ring, reluctant to draw close to the other. Those tense seconds were spent trying to hastily gauge the other, looking for some sort of advantage.

One of them finally broke. The man across the ring began spouting frantic accusations—calling Undevar a monster. That he and his witcher kin were wolves hiding in sheep's clothing. Cautious fear was quickly infected by anger in both of them.

Kozin witnessed the depraved scene up front and center. He thought back to when he had wrestled with the griffin on the riverbank, but this was in no way the same. It was something he wished he could look away from, but his eyes were not his own.

Somehow, even without looking, he knew Valdre was watching every second of it.

The end only came with blood. Palms slick with red struck the ground as Undevar caught himself. Dirt and sand stuck to the sticky skin. He panted. His own blood streamed down his face, dripping from the point of his nose.

He took a few seconds to recover, and then shakily rose to his feet. He exited the ring, not daring to look back at what he'd done. Valdre, on the other hand, gazed casually past him. Undevar waited for his grandmaster to say something. Anything.

Valdre only gave him silence for a few moments. Then, quietly, he said, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Undevar." He turned. As he walked away, the young Bear quickly called out.

"What was his crime?" Undevar demanded desperately. Valdre stopped. "What did he do?"

The grandmaster laughed curtly and continued walking.

* * *

"Was he innocent?" were Kozin's first words upon returning to the present. Theila looked down and shrugged.

"I don't know, and I don't care to know," she replied. "What's done is done."

"He… I never knew he'd done something like that."

"By the time you knew him, neither did he," Theila said, looking up. "What he did that day never gave him peace, not even after four decades. After we met, and he finally trusted me enough to share the events of his youth with me, he asked me for a favor." The sorceress leaned an elbow on the table and nestled her chin in her hand. "Telemancy is a very dangerous thing, Kozin. The mind is delicate enough without the invasion of magic. He knew this, and he knew that my skills in telemancy at the time weren't adequately developed. But he still asked because he was so desperate to get rid of what had been plaguing him for years."

"What did you do?"

"The same thing I tried to do with Andryk," Theila answered. "I reached into his mind like a surgeon and cut out the bad part. From then on, Undevar never knew what he had done to that man in the ring. He had enough demons. The least I could do was take this one from him."

Kozin suddenly saw the sorceress's demeanor change. Something within her seemed to deflate. Kozin grew anxious at what kind of ghost had manifested this time.

He watched as Theila pressed two fingers against her temple. The pressure turned her fingertips white. "It's such a fortunate thing that telemancy, beyond mind- and memory-reading, is so difficult. The ability to permanently alter memories is a dark, dark power. About as bad as necromancy, I'd be prepared to argue. I've known several mages that, given the opportunity, would've done some terrible things with that power." Theila closed her eyes. "And at one point, I was _so_ tempted to walk down that path."

Her eyes opened but stayed on the table. "I've never, _ever_ taken a memory without explicit permission. No exceptions. But this one… this one almost made me break that rule."

"Why?"

"When you see it, you'll understand," Theila said. "But I had to let him keep it. She deserved that much."

* * *

A quiet curiosity had touched him, and Undevar figured he was the only witcher on the island that had ever questioned where the non-mutated inhabitants of the keep came from. He had a sinking suspicion that many of them had not stepped on these shores by their own free will. The women, especially.

They did what they were brought here to do—maintain the keep. Aside from their swords, armor, tack, and themselves, the witchers never cleaned anything. Floors needed to be swept, laundry washed, and meals cooked. Such chores belonged to womenfolk, and no Bear would stoop that low.

They weren't given formal titles, but Undevar always referred to them as housekeepers in his head. The women, often young, were treated as though invisible by most. But when they were seen, they were viewed as whores. The sight of a housekeeper being pulled behind a closed door was not an uncommon one.

The youngest of Bears were not to touch them until they were considered men. To them, it was almost like a rite.

Undevar had undergone his 'rite' off the island at a brothel as soon as he was able to afford a night. He hadn't been too keen on partaking in what was plainly ceremonial rape. The others, of course, didn't see it that way. Or if they did, they hardly cared.

When winter turned the world cold, Undevar returned to the keep with his sixth season under his belt. During his year, he had met some Bears a few generations under him who told him that they wouldn't be wintering at the keep. But the concept of not returning to the guild was bizarre to Undevar. Where else would he go if not home?

That winter, home became much more than that.

During one particular evening, Undevar grew tired of the routine of sitting in the hall and drinking the last bits of daylight away. He instead walked through the keep. This winter, the island's docks had remained particularly empty. Undevar wondered which kind of fate kept the missing witchers from returning.

The chilly air was still, tainted only by the faint echoes from the hall. Undevar considered returning to the large room with its blazing hearth. Instead, he buried his hands deeper within the pockets of his coat and carried on.

The tranquility was enough to have him start delving into the deeper recesses of his mind—into the shelves where repressed thoughts had resided. He thought of the Bears who had sailed to the Continent instead of returning. What was the name of the last one he'd spoken to? Brimir?

What good, Undevar pondered, did it do to stay away from the keep? Away from Valdre? To him, Brimir and the others were fools. But he wondered all the same.

 _"Shit!"_ a woman's hissing voice cut through his thoughts. Eyes darted towards the source of the interruption. Through the doorway, Undevar saw a moving shadow. He came to the door and saw that it was one of the young housekeepers. She was stooped down, picking up a laundry basket and its spilled contents. The witcher remained silent as he watched her hold out a tunic in front of her, checking for any obvious stains before stuffing it into the wardrobe.

Undevar battled with the prospect of making his presence known. Speaking to a housekeeper was unheard of. But she must've felt him there, because she turned at that moment. It was when her crystalline green eyes fell on his that Undevar realized she wasn't a housekeeper. She was a woman—probably just shy of 20 springs.

Her face paled when she saw him and knew that he'd heard her outburst. She clasped her hands tightly together. Her gaze fell to the floor. She looked of someone who was ready to accept their fate.

But Undevar gave her none of the hostility she had grown to know. Instead, in that moment, he suddenly chose to alleviate that strange curiosity.

"Where'd you come from?"

The girl looked up. She did a fairly good job of keeping her face neutral, but Undevar saw the surprise in her eyes when she lifted them. "Emery," she answered. "Small village on the coast."

"You're from the Continent?"

"Yessir."

Though he already knew the answer, Undevar asked, "How did you get here?"

"I was brought here."

"You know what I mean." His voice had grown harsher.

Her crystalline eyes disappeared under her lashes as she slipped her gaze back to the floor. "There was a raid by the islanders. Ten years ago, maybe? They pulled me onto a boat with other women. I remember a witcher and a man spoke for a while. Then that witcher took me here."

That was the answer his curiosity had beckoned. So many had been earned—flesh instead of coin on contracts.

This one here… She was the first one Undevar had really taken a good look at. She was a pretty piece with her soft features and wide eyes. But what contrasted with her femininity was her copper hair—cut so short that a comb would barely run through it. Still, it hardly detracted from her beauty, and Undevar was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to undress her.

He stepped towards her and saw her brow furrow in a knowing look. He stopped, shocked by the foreign force that had taken him for a second. Turning, Undevar walked to the door with every intention of leaving her behind. But then he stopped. There was one more thing he needed to know.

Ena. That was her name.

After that, the crackling hearth in the hall became less inviting. Undevar became troubled. He didn't know why crystalline green kept returning to plague his mind. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he wandered through the halls on his own again.

Her face no longer became invisible to him. He found Ena and they talked again. The pattern repeated over several days.

Undevar surprised himself with what he told her. He spoke of the birthplace he hardly remembered. He only knew of the name from the many times he repeated it when introducing himself—Undevar of Tor Bhiethe.

Then he asked Ena why she kept her hair short. She could have looked much prettier with flowing tresses, but he kept that to himself.

"Because it makes me look like a boy," she replied. Undevar didn't question her further.

He liked talking to her. There was no pressure, no expectations weighing on him. The things he told her would not be spilled elsewhere, he knew. Eventually, Ena dared to smile around him. When she did, Undevar realized how much he wanted her. He told her. This time, her brow did not furrow.

The sight of a housekeeper being pulled behind a closed door was not an uncommon sight. But what occurred behind that closed door was something unique.

He hadn't been her first. Undevar wasn't surprised, nor was he bothered. To Ena, however, he was. Tucked against his side, she admitted to him that this was been the only time it hadn't hurt.

"I always thought sex was something men enjoyed," she said, "and women endured. I didn't know it could be like this."

Nor he. Undevar had never felt that kind of intimacy before, or had a woman respond to him like she had. He began to grow worried that he was falling in love. This was a worry he could never tell Cahal, and especially not Valdre. Love was weakness.

Undevar began to wonder if weakness was such a bad thing.

* * *

When winter ended, so did his stay at the keep. It was early morning when Undevar headed down to the docks, leaving Ena still fast asleep in his bed. He hadn't told her that he was leaving today. Undevar had been worried that she would try to tell him goodbye. In front of the others, he had to treat her like she was still invisible.

In fact, it was easier to clear his mind of her when he was off the island. He could finally feel like himself again.

But whenever he returned, he would shed that part of him. Undevar considered the fact that perhaps Ena was corrupting him. His youthfulness disregarded that possibility.

To avoid eyes and sharp ears, the two of them began trekking out to the other side of the island. That area there was heavily wooded, and beyond that was the cliff where boys never returned the same. It was bitterly cold, but at least the trees offered some shelter from the snow.

Even with her coat, Ena shook like a leaf. Undevar's cloak was fairly new—he had bought it a month prior in anticipation of the cold season. Otter fur from the south of Skellige was brutally expensive and had cost him nearly his entire season's earnings.

The thick fur pelt was draped over the girl's shoulders. A small, slender hand slipped out from underneath the heavy coat to hold onto his. Freya had made this Yule especially frosty, but Undevar was warmed.

They settled into their routine. Undevar started a fire and watched Ena nestle closer to it. The firelight almost made those crystals glow. This year he hadn't brought her anything for Yule, but a few days ago he'd heard an interesting tidbit from one of the other witchers about what was underneath the waters just off the shore here.

He led Ena to the rocky coast and showed her the vial of Killer Whale he'd brought. Undevar was glad that the winter clouds dampened the moonlight. It was too dark for Ena to see what the foul liquid did to his skin when he threw it down. The potion burned his stomach like tar. Killer Whale, especially to Undevar, was particularly unbearable. It made his chest feel like it was swelling to the point of bursting. And only when the bloating finally reached its peak did the pain deflate. He bit down hard, determined not to show anything to Ena.

Up until now, the girl had only watched in silent confusion. She began protesting when Undevar removed his undercoat and shirt. "Don't be stupid! You'll freeze into an ice cube!"

He whirled and tried to silence her with a kiss, but in his haste ended up hitting the side of her nose. "Warm me when I come up." Before Ena had the chance to say anything, Undevar dove from the shore and into the black water below.

The cold nearly took his breath away, and he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out into the stifling water. His eyes adjusted, cutting through the black depths. The vague outline of the seafloor came into view under the wavering moonlight.

The witcher had been right. Jutting from the boulders on the seabed were silhouettes of shelled creatures. Undevar swam further down, hoping one of them would be holding what he was looking for.

As he approached the nearest boulder, he realized that the mollusks stuck to its surface were not oysters. Their round, red-stained shells and black hairs told him they were abalones. Undevar was disappointed, but he wouldn't let himself return to the surface without _something_ —even if it had to be a giant sea snail.

He found the largest abalone on the rock and pried it off with a few yanks. Then, looking down, Undevar spotted another crimson-streaked shell burrowed in the crevice of a cracked rock. It was much smaller than the abalone in his hand, but he felt compelled to take this one too.

Ena was waiting for him above the water. Undevar broke the surface and climbed up onto land, his heavy breaths coming out in white clouds. Ena grabbed his arm, telling him how icy his skin was, and dragged him back towards the fire. While the flames dried his skin, Undevar showed Ena the abalones.

She took them, flipping them over to examine their glistening undersides. "There's plenty in the larder if you wanted some," she said.

"Aye, but I doubt any of the ones in the larder have one," Undevar replied, taking the bigger abalone. He felt for a knife, but realized he'd left his belt at the keep. Ena reached under the otter coat and took out a small paring knife to pass over to him. "Have what?" she asked as Undevar began shucking the abalone.

"A pearl."

"I thought only oysters made pearls."

"A lot of these shelled fellows make pearls—not just oysters. Problem is, it's not as easy to find a pearl in this kind." The firm muscle was detached from the shell and the abalone rolled out. Undevar peered into the shell and ran a finger through it. The interior had a shimmery, iridescent color, but there was no little mound inside.

"At least we've a snack," Ena said as Undevar shucked the second. She took the knife back to cut the flesh into slices. "And it's alright. I don't care much for pearls. The shells are beautiful too." Undevar turned back towards her and suddenly took her hand. He guided her fingertips into the shell and over the tiny bump inside. "Then you can have the shell and I'll keep this." He watched her fight against a smile and fail.

She'd laid his clothes by the fire so they would be warm when he put them back on. Time ticked by. They grew tired, but neither of them wanted to go back to the keep. Eventually, they would have to.

He knew this was a bad idea. Bad in so many ways. But he told himself that, for now, it was okay. For now.

Ena shifted against him so she could turn and look up at him. One hand clutched the front of his undercoat. "You don't belong here," she told him.

It suddenly occurred to him. Maybe, just maybe, Valdre wasn't always right.

* * *

 _New blood joins this earth_

 _And quickly he's subdued_

 _Through constant pained disgrace_

 _The young boy learns their rules_

 _With time the child draws in_

 _This whipping boy done wrong_

 _Deprived of all his thoughts_

 _The young man struggles on_

"The Unforgiven"—Metallica

* * *

 _ **Addendum: 'Tis the season of 'my nose is always cold.' Falalalala.**_


	56. Chapter 56 - The Innocents That Die

Word of monsters spread quick as lightning, and the appearance of a cat-eyed stranger often followed like the subsequent crack of thunder. Aisling was a village that neighbored a patch of soggy marshland. The people of the village endured the drowners and bog hags that festered in the swamps, and they were no strangers to the witchers who slayed the foul creatures for coin.

There once again was talk of a monster. And as expected, he came like a clap of thunder. This witcher came with lighter demands—very unlike his kin. They knew which questions he would ask. This time, however, their answers were not so clear. This time, they hadn't seen the monster.

They directed him to the swamp where they were sure the thing came from. Monsters always came from the marshes.

Undevar stood at the edge of its wet borders, staring into the thick fog. The silver blade over his shoulder had been coated with a fine layer of necrophage oil in anticipation of the drowners and hags he would encounter. Even now, he could hear them—the slurping as they pulled their feet from the mud and the ragged gurgles they wheezed through their fangs. He thought back to what the people of Aisling had told him.

What he was going after in the swamp was no drowner. No snake-tongued hag. Things had gone missing, but never people this time. Something was pestering them, the villagers claimed. A man had heard pattering feet outside his home and went out to discover that a select few spokes on every wheel of his wagon had been snapped. Clothes drying on lines had disappeared and reappeared torn and muddy. Mud and something a little more foul smelling were often found caked on the walls of homes—splattered in handprints and crude drawings.

Undevar took a deep breath. He brought one foot forward and felt it sink into the soft, gray sludge. As he trudged a thick trail through the marshes, the ground never ceased to try and pull his boots down. Mist surrounded him, truncating his sight to only a few feet. The Bear trekked onward, listening to the haggard breaths that seemed to come from just beyond what he could see. Limp limbs of dead, dangling willow boughs occasionally came into view.

There was a spot where trees grew in clusters. The woven roots stabilized the ground underfoot. Undevar stopped at the edge of still water. Fog danced and licked at the glassy surface. By the opposite bank, Undevar spotted a cold eye under a scaly ridge surveying him. Then, slowly, the eye sank underneath the water.

Undevar took a step back from the bank. The soggy roots squelched under his soles. His eyes drifted upward into the sheets of white blanketing the air around him and he strained his ears. The growls, the slapping feet, told him where every drowner was relative to him. But he didn't hear anything else.

Something touched him. Quickly, the witcher whirled around. One hand was already squeezing the hilt, and a few inches of the blade had been drawn. Nothing was there, and Undevar heard nothing around him. He released the hilt and let the blade slid back.

It could have been his imagination. In fact, that was what he was starting to believe until he looked down.

One of his potions was missing. Undevar reached up and touched the strap that ran across his chest, feeling the empty spot at the end of the row of vials. He lifted his eyes and looked around, squinting through the heavy smog.

It seemed the villagers were right—there was an anomaly in the swamp. Something that wasn't a drowner.

He drew his silver sword and walked on. As he departed from the bank, the roots grew thin and he soon found himself trudging through the sucking mud again. As Undevar walked, he heard a low hiss. Something flew from the mist. Undevar swung the blade and lopped off the drowner's head before it even touched him. The body splashed into the mud and sank. He continued, giving the silver sword a flick to get rid of the thick black blood.

Further ahead, Undevar spotted something glimmering from the sludge. He stooped down and pulled it out. Bits of muck dripped down from the sides of the empty glass vial. Contents of the potion had been spilled on the ground, glimmering like worms in crevices in the mud. The cork was there too. Undevar wiped it off on his cloak and rolled it between his fingers as he pondered.

He looked again into the blinding white and picked a direction. Based on the scent he caught from the bottle, he had an idea of what he was dealing with. The silver blade returned to its sheath. He wouldn't need it.

Undevar continued on. His senses told him that nothing was nearby, but he knew better than to trust them in a place like this. Especially now that he knew what was following him. After all, curiosity was the dominant trait in all children.

Aloud, Undevar said, "The people of Aisling aren't happy with the wee kleptomaniac that keeps harassing them."

"Pah!" a squeaky voice answered him. "I thought you were carrying little liquor bottles on you, Mister Witchman! But when I opened it up, it smelled like _shit!"_

Undevar whirled to his right and threw Yrden. The purple runes lit up the fog, illuminating the tiny figure caught within its snare. Startled, she fell back on her rear with a squeal.

The Bear marched up to the edge of Yrden. Thrusting an accusatory finger at the godling, Undevar snarled, "Don't you _dare_ take anything from me again! You hear me, you little rat?"

The godling responded by sticking her tongue out and blowing noisily. "You're a stinky witcher with stinky bottles!" she snapped. She grabbed a handful of mud and threw it. Undevar raised an arm and let the mud splatter against his gauntlet. By the time he lowered his arm the Yrden trap was empty.

Upon returning to Aisling, Undevar spoke to none of the adults. Instead, he found a child running a stick along the fence and asked the little tot about the godling. The boy didn't hear him at first above the racket he made as he ran up and down with the fence. When the child finally ran back to the witcher, Undevar barked out, "Haw, runt! I'm talking to you!"

The boy stopped. More importantly, that awful rattling stopped. The child regarded the witcher with wide eyes for a second before shouting out, "Oiye, mister, you're a right big ol'man!"

Undevar's brow furrowed. He knelt down so that he didn't have to look quite so far down at the child and said, "You ever see a child come from the swamp? Big lamp-like eyes, dark puffy hair, and a mouth 'bout as big as yours?"

The boy's face lit up. "Jesi?"

"Jesi? That's her name?"

"Aye! She's funny! We play games! She knows a lot of fun games!"

"Like what?"

"Races!" the boy answered. "First one to lap around the village and touch the tree at the other end get to be king for the day! And we sometimes see who can snatch the most things off of Old Danda's laundry line without being caught! And—."

"I see." Undevar looked around the village. It was a small settlement—the kind of place a godling would be keen to hang around and look after. Its population hadn't reached the point where Jesi would be pushed to move on. It seemed Aisling didn't have much to worry about except for a little brat with a propensity for stealing laundry and alcohol.

Undevar rose to his feet, prepared to tell the men who hired him of the godling's existence. He made sure to tell them how godlings acted as guardians, anticipating that they'd say that his job wasn't done without the monster's head. Whether they believed him or not, they knew better than to argue with a Bear witcher. Afterwards, Undevar headed towards the inn. He needed a place to clean his boots and take a long, hot soak.

The inn was two stories tall, and Undevar was given a room on the second floor. He went up to remove his gear, and came back down to the communal bathing room where the tub had been drawn for him. He saw the girl who was readying his bath peek at him as he removed his tunic. Undevar considered tempting her to his room, but decided against it. Fighting through the mud all day had worn him out, and that made his desire for sleep louder than his carnal cravings.

As he settled in the steaming water, Undevar thought back to the insolent little godling he had encountered in the swamp. Stinky witcher? That little shite. And she had wasted one of his potions, too.

When the bath had finally become too cold, Undevar pulled himself out. Immediately, a large puddle formed at his feet, and two smaller ones were made as he stepped over to the pile of towels. Dry and warm, he made his way back to his room. He paused to inspect his armor, and then went over to the bed. As he passed the window, he saw something moving in the darkness below.

It was a deer. The creature's coat was youthfully pale. Cautiously, it took a delicate step towards a crooked fence post and sniffed at it. Even from where he stood, Undevar could see the wiggling of its wet nose.

Then it quickly withdrew from the post and perked its head up. It looked towards the marshes, ears fully extended. Quickly, the deer bound into the darkness—towards the direction of the swamp.

Undevar turned away from the window. Give that beast a few more springs, and it'd be plump enough to go over the fire pit. Great, now he was craving venison. Undevar yawned and plopped down on the springy mattress, telling himself that he would go hunting for some big game as soon as he and Cahal met up again.

* * *

Judging from the darkness that still settled over the room, something had awoken him. Glowing eyes opened in the dark. They quickly flicked to the side where the soft shuffling came from. Silently, Undevar turned his head.

He recognized her by her little, puffy head. She had her head thrown back, and Undevar heard the wide gulps she made. His eyes drifted up to what she drank so widely from, and suddenly bolted upright.

 _"Oi!"_ he boomed.

Remarkably, the godling didn't choke. She brought the flask down and shook it mockingly in front of her. Undevar heard how empty it was.

"I found it, stinky witcher!" she jeered. "You've got some _strong_ stuff!"

Undevar flung the covers off. "Put that down!" he roared. "How much of it did you drink?" He put one foot down.

The godling was more clever—no, devious, than the Bear had expected. Next to his bed, she had placed a board. And under it were the roundest stones she could find. As soon as Undevar placed his weight on it, the stones rolled. He slipped out of bed and smacked onto the floor. He heard the godling cackle with glee.

"Why are you so protective of this stuff, huh? Don't you know sharing is nice?"

Undevar brought himself to his knees and pushed himself up. "Little _shite!"_ he roared. "I'll fuckin' strangle you!"

But the godling had scurried around him before he realized what has happening. He heard the mattress creak as she jumped on it. As soon as Undevar turned around, he was met with a face full of pillow.

"You're a big grump!" she announced. "I hate witchers! They're mean!"

Undevar rose, kicking the board and pillow aside. The godling looked up at him defiantly. "You're here to kill me, aren't you?" she accused. "Because that's all witchers do! They kill and don't even stick around to watch the blood leak out because they just take their money and leave!"

"You're clearly as stupid as you are annoying!" Undevar growled. "I haven't come here to kill you—though now you've drank all of my mead, I'm seriously considering it!"

"See?" the godling cried triumphantly.

Undevar took a deep breath, letting it exhale forcefully through his nose. He wasn't here to kill the godling, he reminded himself. Even if he really, _really_ wanted to. "Jesi," he said gruffly. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"Aye," the godling replied. "Don't go wearing it out."

"Well Jesi," Undevar said, "I'm not here to hurt you. But folks around here aren't too happy about their things disappearing and being tampered with. And for fuck's sake, why would you smear shite all over their walls?"

"Because it's funny!" Jesi argued. "Especially when people realize it isn't mud!" The godling was incredibly short, even standing on the bed. Or maybe it was because Undevar wasn't used to dealing with such a tiny thing. She had stuck twigs into her frizzy hair in the bare semblance of a laurel wreath. A look of pure delight suddenly crossed the godling's face as she added, "And that's not all! Sometimes… sometimes I steal panties!"

"Well your little 'funny' acts have garnered complaints from the locals."

"Pah!" Jesi scoffed with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Grown ups always complain! Complain and work—they do naught else!"

"Jesi," Undevar said sternly. "If you want to linger around this village, fine. If you want to play with the children and frolic in the swamp, fine. Just no more stealing. No more breaking things. And no more shite on walls!"

"What a bore!" Jesi protested.

"If you don't want to be an ornament on a witcher's saddle, you'll listen," Undevar snapped.

"No!" Jesi suddenly cried out with a stamp of her foot. "Stupid stinky witcher! You can't tell me what to do! You can't even catch me!" In a flash, she had scurried from the bed and ducked underneath Undevar's arm. By the time the Bear whirled around, she had vanished.

It was only in the morning when he discovered that two more of his potion vials were missing. Many were jarred awake by the witcher's loud, thunderous, _"FUCK!"_

* * *

The next morning, as the sun rose, it brought with it a new calamity. A woman shrieked and sobbed in desperate frenzy while others told Undevar of what had happened. A child had gone missing. Tracks led into the swamp.

This had happened once before, and nothing could be done to retrieve the bairn. All the villagers could do was hire a witcher to bring back the hag's head in retribution. This time, they prepared to do the same.

Undevar had studied the tracks, but something wasn't right. There were no bog hag prints leading to or away from the village. The only set of tracks was that of a child's leaving the village alone. Once again, the witcher's eyes gazed towards the unrelenting fog, an unsavory conclusion brewing in his mind. He told the villagers the empty promises that they expected to hear and headed back into the wet, desolate lands.

The child had left a trail scent to follow—fear-induced sweat. To go alone into the marshlands required bravery… and no short amount of foolishness. Undevar found the depression in the mud where the child had tripped. The space was smaller than that of any child. Already, the muck was slowly shrinking in on the indent like a closing wound. But since it had not fully disappeared, the fall had been recent.

He continued following the trail. The smell was starting to become more concentrated. That was good. Though, Undevar thought gravely, he more than likely wasn't going to find a living child at the end of the spoor. And when he picked up the unmistakably foul stench of a bog hag converging on the child's trail, he knew he would be right.

It seemed that a witcher's predictions held no water when there were uncontrollable forces involved—namely, forces that were just a little over two feet tall. Undevar first heard the quick shlucking of light, rapid steps over the mud. Then, the fog broke as a small figure came racing towards him. Undevar had just drawn his silver blade when he recognized the godling.

Jesi stopped when she saw the witcher. Then, she hopped up and whirled around to whatever was behind her. Pointing up at Undevar, she shouted, "Look here, Granny! There's a great big man over here, just for you! I bet he's got a lot of tasty meat on him!"

Undevar heard a guttural scream answer the godling. That foul stench rushed his nose and he gritted his teeth when he realized what Jesi had sicced on him.

The bog hag came charging through the fog and ran headfirst into a burst of Igni. She howled and swatted herself wildly, putting out the small fires that had started on her limp clumps of hair.

"Horrible, burning witchman!" she rumbled in her throaty voice. In a blink, Undevar saw the mud pop and bubble as the hag disappeared underneath it. Backing away, his eyes flitted quickly over the ground around him.

"There, right there!" he heard Jesi shout. He looked over at her. The godling was pointing.

Suddenly, there was an explosion of mud beside him. Undevar shielded his face with an arm. The sludge coated his hair and beard, but his quick reflex had saved his eyes.

The bog hag swiped her claws as she resurfaced. She scored the witcher across the torso. Undevar felt the claw of her middle finger slice through his chainmail, leaving a short cut right below his chest. He ground his teeth together and backed away as quickly as the mud would allow him. The cut, only an inch or two long, burned fiercely.

"Play fair now, y'auld munter," he growled. The bog hag hissed in response. Undevar saw her whip-like tongue fly and twirled just in time. When he faced her again, he quickly casted Yrden.

The hag lashed out at him with her talons again, but the Sign had slowed her considerably. Undevar was able to dodge her and swiped his blade upward in a diagonal slash. The blade bit her across the belly and one swinging breast. The hag roared. Yrden allowed him to slash her again. Unwilling to push his luck further, Undevar quickly backed off. He heard the sizzle of his blade's oil burning her rent flesh.

The shrieking necrophage leapt at him. It brought her past the borders of the Yrden snare. Mid-jump, she suddenly became disorientingly swift again. She came at Undevar with a series of swipes, and all the Bear could do was strafe just out of the way of each one. But each swing brought the bog hag closer to him. On her last strike, Undevar parried her claws away from him. His counter sent her stumbling back. Unexpectedly, she threw her tongue out as she staggered. The pointed tip darted through the air and struck Undevar on the cheek like a slap.

This time, the witcher cried out and held his face. His cheek burned as though inflicted with a hundred angry stings. The venom spread quickly. Already, the unbearable pain was pulsing across his face and down his neck. His vision wobbled. He turned his head back and saw the lumpy shape of the bog hag flying at him.

There was a heavy splat. The bog hag reeled back. Undevar squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. His vision cleared just enough for him to see that the bog hag's face was covered in mud.

"Nasty granny!" he heard Jesi's squeaky voice taunt. "Ugly, ugly granny! You look much better with that muck all over!"

The bog hag screeched in rage. "Cursed, noisy child!" she spat.

"Agreed," Undevar growled. The hag's head snapped back to him. The Bear threw a fist and felt collide solidly with her mud-covered face. She flew back into the sludge and quickly burrowed back underneath. Immediately, Undevar danced about, watching the ground. He saw the mud next to him shift and hurried back as the bog hag breached and swung wildly at him.

He had been careless. A blob of mud splattered over his face. Undevar dragged the back of his hand over his eyes. A piercing pain jabbed his neck. He opened his eyes to see the bog hag pulling her tongue back.

The squeezing, burning throbs became amplified. Undevar choked. He stumbled and caught himself. The bog hag flexed her claws and tilted her head as she watched. She had sensed her victory and wanted to watch her prey choke to death. When the witcher straightened back up, she jerked her head and whipped him once more on the neck.

This time, Undevar's legs buckled underneath him. He felt his arms splash into the thick mud. The cold sludge coated his face.

"Man meat." The bog hag's voice grew as she drew closer to him. "Not like child's flesh. Let rot—become sweet and tender." She thought he was done for. The bog hag didn't know how dangerous bringing a Bear witcher to the last leg of his life was.

Something whizzed through the air, and the bog hag grunted as something hit her. "Leave him alone!" Jesi squealed. Undevar looked up as the godling darted out of the way of the bog hag's flying tongue. She quickly stopped to scoop up and throw another handful of mud. With a shaky arm, Undevar lifted himself and felt at the vials on his chest. He knew which one it was without even looking.

There was a certain concoction that was unique to the School of Bear. The early masters had created the brew with one goal in mind—to ensure that if a Bear was to die, that he would do so with a final moment of bloody glory. But glory was not to come without a cost. The witcher that had tested the prototype succumbed to its overwhelming effects in the end. This suicide potion was used in practice for a few decades, until the formula was finally refined.

No longer would the potion only be used by Bears prepared to die. A master had observed the effects of mardroeme on berserkers. The new concoction incorporated the mushroom, replacing the poisons used previously as the rage-inducing agent. But it came at the price of losing control, and the grandmasters of the other witcher guilds had shunned the potion when they saw what beasts it made of its drinkers.

Undevar pushed out the cork, and it disappeared in the mud. He looked up and saw Jesi still dancing around the bog hag. "Get away!" he roared, his trembling fist threatening to shatter the glass vial. "Go! Run!"

"But—."

"Run, you fucking rat!" Undevar bellowed. "Get out of here!" Through his hazy vision, he saw the godling retreat. Rolling onto his side, the Bear threw the potion down. It burned worse than the bog hag's venom.

With the godling gone, the necrophage turned back to her victim. But what she found was a witcher climbing steadily to his feet. She was baffled, but then her instinct to kill kicked back in. Her tongue lashed out and struck the witcher's bare flesh again.

He didn't cry out. He didn't flinch. It was as though her tongue had never touched him. Undevar charged at her, sword in hand. He swung, but the bog hag was quick. Her claws flew out and stabbed through his armor like cloth.

He didn't seize up and scream in agony like her prey usually did. He had become something entirely different—something unearthly that felt no pain. With the bog hag's claws still stuck in him, Undevar raised an arm and smashed his fist down onto her arm. It snapped bone and tore her claws out from his flesh.

The bog hag pulled her other talons out and tried to flee, but the witcher had seized her by the tongue. He yanked her back. Dropping his sword, Undevar squeeze a hand over her forehead. He pulled the tongue until the tension kept him from pulling more, his other hand pushing her head back. The witcher bared his teeth and strained his arm until there came a sickening pop. The bog hag's head flew back, and she howled as blood poured from her mouth.

He wasn't done. The mardroeme pumping through his veins wouldn't let him stop. Undevar grabbed the bog hag by the neck. Desperately, she swiped and cut him over and over again. The witcher bled, but he didn't care.

Undevar pulled the bone dagger from its sheath and flipped it over. He slammed the pommel down on the bog hag's face. The second time it came down, it broke her nose. The third and fourth times, it shattered her skull.

He couldn't recognize when to stop. Not until the sounds of the pommel striking down became soft, and there was nothing but a concaved well of red pulp. It took great effort for him to open his hand and let the corpse fall heavily into the mud. His breathing was harsh and grating. His heart felt as though it were on the verge of hammering through his ribs.

There were soft footsteps. Crazed, bloodshot eyes shot at the direction of the sound.

"Oiye," came a squeaky voice. "Why didn't you do that soo—?"

With a scream, he charged at his next prey. Jesi gave a terrified yelp and ran. Her speed over the mud was the only thing that saved her life.

For the next few hours until the potion wore off, a new monster roamed the marshlands, tearing apart everything it found.

When Undevar awoke, he was still in the swamp. He found that someone had dragged his silver sword to his side. Mashed herbs had been crammed into the many crevices where the bog hag had cut through his armor. He sat up with a strained groan and felt for his potions. He took out Swallow. As he uncorked the potion, he saw that his hands and forearms were caked in dried, dark blood.

He took the Swallow down like a shot, clenching his teeth as the slimy liquid slid unbearably down his throat. His head slowly cleared. Undevar became aware of quiet breathing nearby. He looked and saw a pair of lamp-like eyes peering at him from behind a willow.

Jesi ducked behind the tree. "Will you do it again?"

"Nay," Undevar replied, his voice raspy. "This one heals." He rose to his feet, fighting against the soreness. "Where's the bog hag's den? Need to recover the bairn's body—whatever's left of it."

"Colin's alive," Jesi replied, slowly emerging from the willow. "Had him hide in a stump while I got the granny to chase me. I was gonna lead her to the water so the chompers would take care of her, until you showed up."

"Hm," Undevar grunted, wiping the silver blade along his thigh. "So why did Colin come out here all on his own, anyway?"

"The granny kidnapped him."

"Only set of tracks leading in was a child's, rat. Don't fuck with me."

Jesi hesitated. "He was trying to find me," she finally admitted. "Wanted to play."

Undevar returned the blade to his back and turned to the godling. "That's dangerous," he said. "Next time you go to the village, tell them to stay out of the marshes. Drill it into their heads. They'll listen to you."

Jesi stared back up at him. "I can keep them safe," she argued.

 _"No,"_ Undevar snapped. "Last thing the village needs are their bairns running into the swamp. If the mud doesn't do them in, the drowners here will. You won't be able to save them all, and once enough children go missing, people will have the good sense to leave and Aisling will become deserted." He paused to let his words sink in.

Jesi looked down, defeated. "Fine."

Undevar didn't stay in Aisling for much longer after that. The Path beckoned and he followed, wondering how well a godling could keep her word.

* * *

The subtle aftereffects of the mardroeme lingered for much longer than he anticipated. They manifested in sudden, short fits of rage and nightmares of torn, bleeding flesh that would awaken him in cold sweat.

Undevar waited until he was absolutely sure that he was free of the potion's grip. The shores had already frozen over, making his journey home difficult. When he finally arrived back at the keep, many of his brethren expressed their surprise. They figured he had finally found the end of his Path.

She had thought so too. With the sudden rush of emotion that came after so many days of despair, Ena forsook the need for secrecy and embraced him the moment she saw him. And Undevar, having endured the cold for so long without the warmth of her touch, held onto her.

But when they parted, Undevar noticed a silent spectator that had witnessed their brief moment of intimacy. He locked eyes with Cahal for a heartbeat, and then the other witcher disappeared behind the corner. Worry began to collect slowly in the well of his chest.

He didn't have to wait long before Cahal would confront him about it. That evening, while they warmed themselves in the great hall with hot cider, the younger witcher brought Ena up. Undevar's eyes flickered to the side, watching for anyone who might've overheard.

"Och, Undevar, you're a right dolt if you think this little thing you've got going on has gone unnoticed," Cahal sneered.

Undevar pulled his tankard closer, hoping the scraping would cover the sound of his heart skipping a beat. "Eh, that right?"

"Aye. Don't blame you—that one's got a nice, fat pair of teats on her. I can't say I care too much for a wench with cropped hair, though. Makes her look a bit too much like a lad. A quine ought to have long locks—don't look proper without 'em. Also good for yanking while you're doggin' them."

"Cahal, you've got enough hair for both you and the lass," Undevar jested before bringing the cider to his lips. "So what were you up to this season?"

But Cahal wouldn't let the subject drop and ignored Undevar's question. "Don't know why you're so attached to that one," he said. "Switch her out and get a change of scenery. So long as the fanny's nice and tight, it don't matter who it belongs to."

Undevar shrugged. "That may be so," he said. "Why don't you stick to your flowy-haired lasses, and I'll be sure to keep the cropped ones out of your way."

Cahal laughed. "Aye, sounds like a deal!"

Against his better judgment, Undevar decided to assume that all witchers were like Cahal and had shrugged off his peculiar behavior as fickle. It was the easier thing to do. He and Ena found solace from the cold in bare skin and passion, or in the crackling fires when they would steal away into the woods for a bit of privacy.

He always let her wear the otter skin coat. The pelts had long since captured her scent so that when he shrugged it on in the midst of his seasons, he would be reminded of the woman waiting for him.

One night, Ena asked Undevar where he would go when he left the island. He told her he traveled across all of Skellige's isles. Sometimes, the Path would bring him to the Continent. Undevar told her of the lands he had heard of that some day he would go to—the hot, exotic sands of Ofir and fair, sunny Toussaint. The Dragon Mountains, and the uncharted lands beyond them all.

"I wish I could see them," Ena sighed. "Not Ofir or Toussaint. Just anywhere but here."

The thought of taking her off the island flashed briefly in Undevar's mind. It was outrageous, and no doubt the masters would be less than pleased if they found out. Ena was quiet, waiting for Undevar to make the offer. The silence continued, and the unspoken promise withered away.

That winter, something was different. Undevar noticed it, and he knew Ena was trying to hide it. Though she never missed a chance to follow him into the woods, she didn't want to make love as often. She became a little quieter, though she tried to fill the silence with smiles that were a little too wide.

At Yule, she gave something to him for the first time. It was a strip of braided string. At the end was a small, circular charm that was iridescent and smooth to the touch. Ena told him that as it was her first time whittling shell, she had cut herself making the charm.

When the snow melted away, the keep once again emptied. The witchers departed eagerly, their desires for blood stirring from hibernation. Undevar was usually among the last to leave. He found he could no longer steal away without her noticing. Ena had grown to learn to recognize when the morning of his departure would come.

He opened his eyes and recognized the cold light seeping in from between the cracks in the curtains. Undevar took a deep breath. A hand squeezed his. She was already awake.

She lifted herself up and crawled over him. Undevar watched her with eager anticipation, placing a hand on her back. But there was no playfulness in her crystalline eyes. Instead, there was sadness and something else. Fear, he thought.

"Take me away," she pleaded. "Please, just take me far away."

The Bear was silent, his mind trapped in turmoil. He couldn't leave her here, locked to the silent torment that he knew she endured. But at the same time, taking her off the island would be defying the will of the guild—the will of his grandmaster.

And he couldn't do that.

Undevar told her that it was time for him to go. Something broke in her eyes, and he didn't want to see it. Instead, he gently pushed her off. "Go back to sleep," he told her. "I'll be back next winter."

* * *

A missing child in Aisling. As soon as Undevar heard the news, he went straight to the village. He stopped only long enough to briefly hear what the villagers could tell him, and then marched into the swamp.

He called out the godling's name as he stomped through the marshlands. Drowners were drawn to his voice, but Undevar cut through them and resumed his pace. He came to the spot where he had first encountered Jesi, but nothing was there. Undevar continued on.

He found the bank of the river and stood silently, watching the water's still surface belie what lurked underneath.

Something moved on the opposite bank. Undevar's eyes snapped to it, but the fog had reduced it to nothing but a blur. But it stepped closer, until it had shed the last of its misty disguise.

It was the fawn he had seen from the inn window when last he had been in Aisling. A year's age had done little to darken its coat as though it aged the same as a witcher. Its wide ears fanned up and pointed to the Bear. Undevar saw its black nose twitch. Surely it had noticed him, but it did not startle.

It was just a strange sight to see in this muggy, bleak swamp, this defenseless creature. How had the drowners, starved from meat save what was unfortunate enough to wander into the fog, not gotten to it yet?

The fawn's ears relaxed. It turned and bounded back into the white. The water close to the bank bubbled. Undevar's eyes snapped to it, and he waited. Nothing happened.

Something touched him. Undevar didn't react. Without looking down, he patted the empty spot on his belt, and then growled, "Give it back."

He heard the light jingling of the circular shell charm. The godling gave a generous sniff. "Smells sweet—like a woman's perfume," Jesi said. Then, in a cooing voice, she added, "Is this from your _lover?"_

Undevar whirled around, faster than a blink. He had the godling by the back of her potato sack-looking shawl and lifted her into the air. She kicked out, but her legs were too short to reach him. "Oiye!" she squealed. "If I wanted a boost, I'd ask! But I didn't, did I?"

The witcher carried her over to the water's edge and dangled her over the smooth surface. "Chompers," Undevar recalled. "How much do you think they'd appreciate a bite-sized snack?"

"They'd much rather feast on your fat arse!" Jesi retorted, this time trying to swing her tiny fists at him.

"I think I'd be doing this entire swamp a favor by getting rid of this earful," Undevar snarled. "But I might reconsider if you give that back to me."

"Take it!"Jesi snapped, thrusting the braided string at him. "I got no interest in your nasty lovey-doviness anyway!" Undevar pulled her back from the bank and dropped her back on the mud. As soon as her feet touched ground, she darted away. But before she could disappear, Undevar said, "Hold on, rat. I'm not done with you."

"Aye, well wait in line!" the godling retorted, turning around nonetheless.

"Jesi, you know why I'm here, don't you?"

"Aye! Because you're a stinky ol'witcher with nothing better to do than to bully children!"

Undevar's eyes flashed. "You're no child, rat. Far from it. Children don't hold disregard for the lives of others, do they? Nay, it takes something far more sinister to do that." He took a step towards the godling, and she took two steps back to keep the distance.

"You're talking nonsense!" she squeaked.

"Another child went missing in here, Jesi. The tracks were long gone by the time I got here, but I'd be willing to throw down some crowns and say there'd been only one set of footprints leading in. Which tree stump do you have the bairn hiding in, Jesi? Or did the drowners already get to them? I thought we talked about this."

"I told them!" Jesi said, stamping a foot into the soft mud. "I told them we could play in the village, but they didn't listen!"

Undevar crossed his arms. "Then you know what needs to be done, aye?" The godling didn't answer him, so he continued, "What you always do when a bairn misbehaves—take away the source of the bad behavior."

Jesi's eyes widened with fear. "But y-you—!"

"I'm not going to kill you," the witcher interrupted. "But I can't let you stay here."

Anger joined the fear. "You can't!" Jesi screeched. "This is my home! This is where I watch over Aisling!"

"Watch over?" Undevar repeated. "You're a danger to them. There'll be more and more footprints leading into the swamp until there's no child left to make them!"

"I can protect them!"

"Aye? What about this bairn? Where are they now? Did you protect them?" Jesi didn't answer. "Leave, rat, before you make me do something I don't want to!"

"You can't make me!" the godling shouted. She scurried away and disappeared into the fog. Frustrated, Undevar could only return to the village. He asked the local herbalist for burdock. The closest thing in stock was powdered burdock root, which was used to treat indigestion. There was no need for the stems and leaves, the herbalist explained, so they were usually discarded.

Burdock wouldn't have helped him anyway. There was an entire swamp Jesi could run around in to avoid its scent. Undevar paced around the border of the village as he pondered, ignoring the worried glances that its inhabitants threw at him.

He stopped by the fence. A stick was lying next to it, but the boy that had run up and down with it was nowhere to be seen. Undevar stood by the leftmost post. He held a hand out and let it hover over the wood. Then, he turned and looked back. The two-story inn was behind him, and he spied the window of the room he'd stayed in just a year prior.

Burdock had been the kinder solution. There was another way to drive away the godling, and this one involved the destruction of something sacred.

Do what you have to do, Valdre had once told him. Give me the results that befit me. The ends justify the means.

Undevar walked back into the swamp. This time, he had his crossbow in hand. He trudged through the heavy murk, hunting for the soft steps of a quadruped. Undevar had walked for hours. He met several drowners, but never slowed for them. Instead, he fired bolts into their chests simply to get them out of his way and would be gone in the fog before the necrophages had time to snap out of their confusion.

He was locking yet another bolt into the spring of his crossbow when he finally heard it. The witcher's head snapped up, listening. It was close, and that also mean that she was too. Undevar lowered his eyes and continued to pull back the spring until it gave a soft, threatening click. "Leave," he muttered quietly.

He heard her voice, but she wouldn't show herself to him. "I knew it! I knew you were nothing but a stinky witcher! You've come to hurt me, haven't you?"

"Not you," Undevar said, resting his crossbow on his hand. He listened to its dainty steps of the unaware creature. "But I'm about to do something a lot worse if you don't listen."

"I want to stay here! I want to play with my friends! I'm happy here!"

Inhaling sharply, Undevar raised the crossbow and aimed. The point tracked slowly through the fog, following the invisible target.

"No!"

"Come out," Undevar ordered, "where I can see you." He saw the godling emerge from the mist, her fists balled.

"You're not a witcher!" she snapped. "You're a wolf that hunts its own kind! You've a monster heart!"

"Last chance," Undevar warned. "Get out of the marsh. Leave Aisling alone."

"Curse you! Curse you, you horrible witcher! And curse _her!"_ Jesi pointed towards his belt. "Your monster heart doesn't deserve any love! I hope the fate that befalls her is as nasty as you!"

Up until now, Undevar had only aimed to bluff. But upon hearing the godling's words, something dark manifested in his heart and shot through his veins. It seized his arm and made him squeeze his finger over the trigger. The crossbow fired.

It disappeared through the mist. At that moment, a terrible shriek pierced the veil and there came a splash of something hitting the mud. The godling screamed in rage and agony and ran, disappearing forever into the heavy fog.

Undevar turned away, listening to her footsteps and its heartbeat fade together. And when all was silent, he returned to the village. He ignored the parents and told the children not to enter the swamp. He had driven the godling away, and there was nothing left in the swamp for them. They cried and asked him why he did it.

For a moment, Undevar wasn't sure which one of his sins they were referring to.

As he rode out of Aisling, he couldn't help but feel the charm bounce against him. She loved him, thought he was a good man. But he wasn't—not after what he had just done.

But maybe there was a chance at retribution. Undevar thought back to his last morning at the keep. He had been too much of a coward to give her what only he could give her. Maybe it was time to defy the guild. The ends justified the means, and he knew what kind of end he wanted.

Undevar headed straight for the coast and found his boat. Winter be damned—he was going back now and he was taking her off of that island. He wasn't going to be a coward anymore, and she was going to see the world like she wanted.

But when he returned, he didn't find Ena in the keep. He found her in the woods.

* * *

The memory stopped, and Kozin opened his eyes. He saw Theila, and though she didn't say a word, he knew she needed a moment before she could show him what happened next.

"He thought it was fate," she said quietly. "But it was just a coincidence. Just coincidence."

* * *

He carried her back to the keep after he cut her down.

Undevar walked back into the keep in a trance-like state. He was vaguely aware of the weight in his arms. For some reason, he could see everything so clearly now. He saw the housekeepers that passed him, looking only briefly and hurrying so they wouldn't have to see. They didn't want to look into the eyes of the man who had made the mistake of falling in love in a place that destroyed all things good.

The masters glanced away too, but out of apathy. There was one that wouldn't divert his eyes. Valdre watched as Undevar walked up the hall to where he stood. The corner of the grandmaster's lips twitched.

"A shame," Valdre noted, no trace of condolence in his voice. "Out of all of them, she had the finest tits."

Undevar's pace faltered. That darkness returned to his heart, latching on with needle-like fangs and injecting bitter rage into his heart. At that moment, he _hated_ his grandmaster.

But then he looked up. He saw those old cat eyes glaring at him, too cold to be human. He saw the silent expectation within them, and his hatred simmered down into something with its tail tucked firmly between its legs.

Undevar only nodded, now knowing he would never be anything more than a coward.

He tried to pass the grandmaster, but Valdre asked, "Where are you going?"

"The pyres, Grandmaster."

Valdre barked out a laugh as though Undevar had told him the best joke of his life. "What's clotted that head of yours? Only witchers belong on those pyres." He threw an arm out. "Go to the cliffs. Throw it out into the water and be done with it."

"Aye, Grandmaster."

He headed in the direction of the cliffs like Valdre had told him, but took a sharp turn. Undevar walked into the woods, where all semblance of shelter had gone. He wouldn't look up at the dangling rope as he passed it. He found the spot and sat down next to the old ashes of better days.

She was cold, but this time she didn't shiver. He held her tightly, pressing his face against icy skin—hoping that if he could warm her, then maybe she would come back because he was still too young to believe that death could hurt him.

If she had left a note, he didn't want to find it. He already knew what it would say. She had begged him to take her with him, and he'd pushed her off.

"I was going to." He could barely get his words out. "That's why I came back. Why couldn't you have waited a little longer?"

She couldn't be placed on one of the guild's pyres, so he built her one. It took him the rest of the day, and the sun had already set by the time he was done. Undevar went back to his boat and took the otter coat. It smelled of her, and he knew he would never be able to bring himself to wear it again.

He wrapped her in it like he had always done and placed her on the pyre. There was one last kiss—in it, more regret than love.

When the flames climbed, Undevar knew that it could be seen from the grandmaster's wing. This time, he didn't care. He sat on the shore, listening to the crackling and praying that the smoke would carry her high into the heavens—that she would find peace in Freya's embrace. That she would never again be hurt by the coward who had killed her.

He had made a promise to himself in the days after he had emerged from that ring. Undevar told himself that he would never again let himself cry, but his broken heart forced him to.

* * *

 _So long ago, I don't remember when_

 _That's when they say I lost my only friend_

 _Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease_

 _As I listened through the cemetery trees_

"One Headlight"—The Wallflowers


	57. Chapter 57 - Visitors to Skellige

For the next 40 years of his life, Kozin learned, Undevar lived behind a mask. His shell reflected a witcher that Valdre considered near perfect. It was easier, after all, to render himself hardened and heartless when there was no longer anything to keep him good. After Ena, he had given up.

But even broken, that part of him never faded—that little voice that wondered if perhaps things weren't the way they were meant to be. Theila explained that with there being no longer a reason to resist the guild, Undevar had found it a whole lot easier to ignore that voice.

"Then," she said, "about 40 years later, two sorceresses from Vintrica came to Skellige—to that little island of witchers."

* * *

Niyette had instructed her to speak little in the presence of the Bear witchers, and Theila found herself happily abiding when they came into the company of the grandmaster.

The large study space shrank under the vast amount of taxidermy—bears, wolves and the like, all posed with jaws wide open and legs bunched as though ready to leap out at any moment. There were also sets of armor on display. None of them seemed practical enough for a witcher to wear, though Theila suspected that the armor here served the same purpose as the stuffed beasts.

Valdre had sat across from them at his desk, but once the request of the sorceresses came into light, he stood. Theila kept still in her seat and concentrated her gaze on an ornate pipe on the grandmaster's desk as Valdre began to leisurely circle them.

Then he stopped. Theila was aware of how close he stood to her, though he remained just outside of her peripheral. Something cold ran up her arm, though he had not touched her.

"So," he said, resuming their conversation, "Lady Niyette—you ask me to send one of my witchers to die on your behalf at that accursed spire?"

"No," Niyette replied, her voice still as stringent as ever. She lifted her head as she spoke, letting the dark hair trimmed short to trace the line of her jaw come away from her face. "Whether your witcher perishes or not will be entirely on him. We ask for a guide."

"Hmm… a guide. So you can do what? Take a little trip west and… what was it, _research?_ " There was laughter in his voice. Theila felt heat stab through her stomach, though her former mistress remained cool and steady.

"Yes, research. I'm sure you've heard of such a thing, Grandmaster." A smile just briefly appeared on Theila's lips, but it quickly vanished when she felt her chair jolt as Valdre clutched it.

"This is exceedingly dangerous." His voice had grown soft, intimate. Theila's skin crawled.

"We are well prepared for what may wait for us at the spire. All we need is—."

"Coming here," the grandmaster continued. "I hope you are aware of that."

Theila couldn't believe how casually he threatened them—them, sorceresses of Vintrica. They could've razed the keep around them with a flick of their wrists. But he was hardly concerned just because they were _women_. Theila ground her teeth.

Her hands suddenly flew out to grip the armrests when she felt her seat jerk back. Valdre's face was now above her, and she found herself looking up at him. One arm was over her head, still gripping the back of her seat. She felt completely surrounded by him.

"And what about you, darling? Haven't heard a peep from you. What's caught that sweet little tongue?"

"Theila is my apprentice," Niyette cut in harshly. "I believe _we_ were in the midst of a discussion, Grandmaster."

Valdre ignored her. "You seem a little too late in the years to be an apprentice."

Theila wanted so badly to catch something, or someone, on fire.

The old witcher continued to watch her carefully. Then, he let go of her chair and straightened up. His grip had been so tight Theila felt the chair flinch as he released it. "Here's the thing," he began. "I'm not too keen on sending any of my masters to Sansira's Spire for what is quite plainly a worthless cause—just so you lasses can have your little vacation. Are you following, Lady Niyette?"

"Perfectly," the sorceress replied, her pale blue eyes following Valdre as he walked back to his desk and poured vodka from a round-bellied demijohn into the single cup on his desk. "Then we shall see if there is a witcher in Kaer Trolde willing to aid us."

Valdre had just emptied his cup in one go before setting it down and saying, "Go ahead. Doubt you'll find one stupid enough to agree."

"Thank you for taking the time to hear us, Grandmaster. We can see ourselves out." Niyette looked over at Theila and stood. Theila followed. They were walking out of the grandmaster's study when Valdre suddenly spoke.

"After you've been turned away by every witcher on Skellige, feel free to come back here. The only spire you'll go to is the one I'll take you to."

Theila stopped in the doorway. Ahead, Niyette looked over her shoulder but it was too late. Whirling around, Theila glared at the grandmaster. "Valdre," she said, trying her unsuccessful best to temper the quivering in her voice. "Since you're so deluded, allow me to spell it out for you—you are not a god. You may have your witchers worshipping you, but beyond this island you are nothing. And if I were the last woman on earth, and you the last man, I'd start considering bestiality."

 _"Theila,"_ she heard Niyette hiss under her breath.

Valdre held Theila's gaze. Seconds stretched unbearably long, and then the gray witcher smirked.

"I like you," he said, and Theila felt her stomach turn.

"Come, Theila," came the harsh order of her mistress. Theila turned away from those piercing yellow eyes and hurried after Niyette. They didn't say a word as they departed from the island. Theila didn't dare look back at the keep for fear of seeing those yellow eyes in a window.

Water skipped from the bow and the schooner had taken them far from the island before Niyette turned to the younger woman with arms crossed. "It went well until your little outburst," she said.

"Well? We sat in his disgusting study while he spewed the vilest, most putrid bile all over us. Does he not know who we are or what we could do to him?"

"We were there to ask for a favor, not threaten his life," Niyette snapped. "Just because we were born with the gift to command the Chaos does not mean we should hold it over the heads of everyone we meet. Besides." Her voice became a mumble as she turned back to the bow. Wind threw the short locks on either side of her face back. "What did you expect? I told you—visiting Skellige is about as pleasant as prying off your toenail with a toothpick." Theila grimaced. "Let's just get back to Kaer Trolde and figure out our next course of action."

"Why can't we go to Sansira's Spire?" Theila suggested. "Make it there on our own and really stick it to that big moron?"

"What a stupid idea," was the only thing her mistress had to say.

* * *

The saving grace that kept their stay on the isles bearable was that their lodging was decent. The jarl of Kaer Trolde had offered them an entire lodge to themselves. With enough room to accommodate, the sorceresses had brought with them a hefty amount of their laboratory equipment from Vintrica, as well as a few home comforts. There was a machine Theila had, called a Cloud Birther, that she used for her pet project of trying to figure out how to fit a thunderstorm inside a glass jar. After returning from the witcher island, Theila tried to cool herself down by busying herself with her little hobby.

Niyette, meanwhile, found no desire to slow down. She left Theila at the lodge to begin her search for any roaming witchers.

The afternoon was aging, and Theila found herself once again giving up on her impossible task. There just wasn't any way for a thundercloud small enough to fit in a jar to sustain itself. Theila stood. Wrapping her arms over her stomach, she wandered boredly over to a lattice window and looked out.

Perhaps it was the sheer boredom that drove her mind to wander in the direction it did. The sorceress found herself thinking of old woes she figured she had already absolved herself of. Apparently not.

It had been a long time since Theila had entered womanhood and stretched it beyond the limitations of nature. In fact, she mused, had she not been a sorceress, she would've likely been part of the earth by now. But despite that, and despite the years that had long since melted into meaningless numbers, some things never faded.

Theila had met so many women—mothers with their rosy-cheeked children—and she envied them bitterly. But Theila was a realist, and she knew she would never have one to call her own. Her only comfort was in knowing that this desperate yearning was merely a product of biology. Nature found a way to make women want children so they would have them. It was a human trait, and Theila, despite the magic and potions that had irreversibly altered her body, was still human. So this longing, this horrible, gut-wrenching longing, was only biology.

In following this reason, Theila put her thoughts to rest and turned away from the window. She considered going after Niyette and joining in her mistress's search for witchers. But then again, today had been overcast and dreadfully humid. The cool interior of the lodge was far more inviting, and Theila wasn't too keen on looking like a blow-dried Pomeranian by the day's end.

But her demons, having been recently revived, weren't quite ready to be silenced just yet. There was a cherry wood cabinet in Niyette's room that housed her prized wine collection. Pulling apart the mahogany doors, Theila found herself faced with dark bottles of her mistress's carefully selected ports, sherries, and mauries. She took the closest bottle, a Corvo Bianco maury, and read the label to busy her mind. 20 percent ABV—strong stuff, like many of the others in the cabinet. It seemed Niyette was adverse to anything weaker. Come to think of it, now that look on her face when the headmistress had gifted her a bottle of moscato that one Yule made sense.

Theila placed the bottle back in its place, turning it so that its labeled faced out. After spending a whole day traversing through Skellige, Niyette wasn't going to be too glad to see Theila rifling through her cabinet.

She didn't have to wait long. Niyette returned less than an hour later. She walked into the lodge looking her usual composed self, though the expression on her face told Theila otherwise. She thought it best not to bring witchers up.

As Niyette walked up the stairs, she said back to Theila, "Have your daily report ready and on my desk by tonight. I'll sign off on it in the morning."

Theila saved her exasperated sigh for when her mistress was out of earshot. Despite their efforts to make the lodge as homely as possible, she was feeling terribly homesick. What she wouldn't give to zap back to Vintrica to take a nap in her own bed or watch the clouds drift lazily between the mountaintops with Pascal. Speaking of that red dragon, he ought to come here, Theila mused. Then he could do the world a favor and gobble up that foul grandmaster.

There wasn't much to put in today's reports. It was honestly a waste of time, but procedures were procedures. "Better to over-report than under-," Gloria had told her. "Sometimes seemingly irrelevant information ends up being highly important."

Well, at least it wasn't a completely wasted cause. At least anyone who read the report would be informed of the turd that called himself the grandmaster of the School of Bear.

* * *

Undevar was pissed out of his tree. Earlier in the tavern he had found himself drunk and hungry. But Cahal had disappeared, probably to go after some skirt, and left him all on his own. Now he was drunk, hungry, and alone. His bladder was also telling him that it was time to head out for some fresh air and look for an isolated bush.

Raucous voices burst out into the still night as the tavern door opened and the witcher stumbled out. The door shut heavily behind him and stifled the drunken cacophony. Undevar hobbled away from the tavern. The world around him wobbled and jolted, but he wasn't aware that it was due to his uneven gait. Remnants of an old tavern song slipped from his lips in a mumbled slur. Undevar made it past a fence and found a cluster of clumpy bushes. He was still garbling about the lasses on the corner that would lift their skirts for a crown and give kisses for two.

"If only whores were that cheap," Undevar interrupted himself to mumble, latching his belt up. He burped loudly and turned around. For a moment, he forgot where he was and what he was doing. Then, he remembered that he needed to head back to the tavern. The night was young and he wasn't done drinking. And by fuck, he'd kill for some mutton—no, give him the whole damn sheep.

Eventually he found the tavern and tried to push through the door. It wouldn't budge. Undevar grabbed the handle with both hands and wiggled it. When did someone lock the tavern door? Was this some sort of cruel practical joke by Cahal—barricade the door to keep Undevar from getting back in and keep all the drink and mutton for himself? The fucker!

He released the handle and pounded a fist against the door. "I step out for two seconds for a piss and you decide to be a complete arse!" he shouted in muddled words. "Let me in, you bastard!"

No one answered him. Come to think of it, the door didn't exactly look like the tavern's entrance. Undevar didn't recall it smelling so sweet either. He took a few steps and lifted his heavy, ringed eyes to examine the building. It didn't look like the tavern, but he didn't remember what that looked like anyway.

Suddenly, there came a curt voice. "What the hell are you doing?"

Undevar turned. Standing there, with her arms crossed, was one hell of a woman. She was exactly like the ones in that tavern song—the lasses on the corner, sultry and perfect. In fact…

"One crown to lift your skirt," Undevar offered, which to his alcohol-soaked brain, sounded like very witty thing to say.

The woman dropped her arms. For a second, Undevar thought she was actually going to do it until she cried out, "I've just about _had it_ with this island!" She pointed at him and said something that was too quick for him to catch. Something bright shot from her finger and shot at him like an arrow. It certainly felt like one when it hit him. The witcher stumbled back and hit the ground.

Undevar sat up. A sorceress! No wonder she looked too good to be true. His chest throbbed where her magic had struck him. "What the fuck?" he wanted to blurt out.

Instead, what he heard was completely different. Either the sorceress had done something to him, or a chicken had started clucking just as he'd opened his mouth. But as far as he was concerned, there were no chickens around.

Undevar repeated himself, but sure enough nothing came out but squawking. A hand flew up to his throat. He squeezed his neck as though trying to feel the ailment. The woman glared down at him. "Now let's put you where you belong," she snapped. She pointed again.

This time, she vanished. Not just her, but the night sky behind her and the dirt underneath him had gone as well. Something crunched and gave away underneath Undevar. He fell a few inches onto solid ground, feeling broken wood welling around him. There was a clamor of squawks, shrieks, and flaps. Something fuzzy but incredibly solid hit his face. There was a sharp pain on his ear and Undevar swatted at whatever caused it. His hand hit another fuzzy thing. It cawed loudly.

There was a swarm of chickens around him, all running and flapping around in frenzied panic at the large man that had suddenly appeared in their coop. They continued to scream and flail their tiny wings as the man struggled to wrangle his way out of the coop, snagging himself on splintered wood and wire. The door suddenly flew open with a forceful tackle and the witcher stumbled out, a cloud of feathers floating after him.

Undevar wandered back to the center of town, still trying to make his way to the tavern. The sudden teleportation, along with his drunkenness, made his head spin. His steps slowed. Perhaps, he reasoned to himself, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to sit down and rest for a moment. Walking to the nearest wall, he plopped down. Catch his breath for a few seconds and then resume the search for the tavern and Cahal—that was the plan.

But as soon as he sat down, Undevar was out like a light.

His bleary eyes opened. Someone was smacking his cheek with quick, gentle slaps. Undevar's brow furrowed and he reached up to shove the hand away.

"Oi, back from the dead, I see." It was Cahal.

Undevar blinked heavily a few times, and slowly the witcher's face came into focus. "You're covered in feathers and eggshells, mate," Cahal continued. "What did you get up to last night?"

"How long was I out?" To Undevar's shock, it wasn't words that came from his lips. He was clucking like a hen.

He saw Cahal's eyes widened, and suddenly a hoot of laughter escaped his companion. "Wh-what just came out of your mouth?" he just barely managed to say through his guffawing. "Holy _shite!"_

"Piss off, Cahal!" More crowing.

Cahal howled, falling back on his rear as he clenched a hand over his stomach. "Stop, Undevar! I'm going to piss myself!" He wiped away the tears streaming down his face and said, "You're not just covered in hen fluff, mate! You're even haverin' like one!"

Desperately, Undevar tried to recall the drunken antics that had led up to… whatever had happened to him. Problem was, he could barely remember anything except being incredibly hungry. Perhaps he had tried to steal a chicken and instead found himself with a fowl curse.

At the thought of a curse, a bit of memory struck him. The sorceress! Undevar hurriedly pulled himself onto his feet, catching himself on the wall as his sore legs wobbled. He ran past Cahal, who was still cackling away, and dashed to find the sorceress who had cursed him. He'd met her in front of a building that radiated with sweet smells. It wasn't hard to find—all he had to do was follow his nose.

Following the flowery trail brought him to the edge of town. There was a lodge that sat between the town and Kaer Trolde. Honestly, Undevar wasn't sure how he'd managed to wander all the way out here. Plus, it would've taken a real idiot to mistake the warm-colored wooden paneling and flowery windowsills of this lodge with the drab face of the tavern.

Undevar paused at the door. From within, he could hear the muffled shuffling of whoever was inside—two people, from the sounds of it. Two mages. He would've groaned if he could. But he'd have to confront them if he didn't want to spend the rest of his days as a clucking witcher.

He knocked and immediately heard a woman say, "Answer the door, Theila."

"But I'm in my bathrobe!"

"Then change. And then answer the door."

More shuffling. Undevar's medallion gave a quick jolt. Heels clicked towards the door, and then it opened. A woman with long, dark ash hair in a dress that was lined with rhinestones appeared. She was breathtaking, but her face immediately soured at the sight of him. Undevar barely got the chance to get a word—or cluck—out before she slammed the door shut.

"Who was it?" someone asked.

"No one. Just a troublemaker," the woman answered, still standing behind the door. Undevar pressed both hands on the wood. He pounded a palm against it.

"Who _is it,_ Theila?"

"Some man who had too much to drink."

"Why is he still at the door?" The other woman groaned. "Take care of it! That pounding is driving me up the wall!"

The door flew back open, and Undevar's hands followed it. He almost fell into the sorceress, but quickly withdrew back. Suddenly, the woman advanced through the door. Undevar packed away. With a harsh pull, the sorceress shut the door behind her. "Listen," she growled. "If you don't want anything worse hexed on you, then get lost!"

Undevar glared and jabbed a finger towards his throat. The sorceress crossed her arms. "Maybe now you'll not make the mistake of saying something stupid to a sorceress," she said. "Now get out of my sight, or I'll make you bleat next." She turned, her hair throwing a strong wave of perfume into Undevar's face.

When she opened the door, another woman stood in the threshold. This one had cold eyes and short black hair. She regarded Undevar for a second, and then her gaze flitted to the other sorceress. "You hexed him?" Her voice made the swords on Undevar's back seem dull.

"Because he was being an utter nuisance!"

"We don't hex people, Theila. That's a temporary solution with long-term consequences."

Two sorceresses—Undevar had heard about them. He knew what they were looking for. Suddenly, he stepped forward and brought the attention of the two women back on him. He gripped the medallion around his neck and held it up.

The black-haired woman paused. Her companion quickly turned to her. "He's not going to help us."

"He's offering." The cold eyes gazed at him and beckoned for a response. Undevar nodded. He dropped his medallion and gestured towards his throat again. "In exchange for the removal of the hex," she translated. "So you agree to take us to Sansira's Spire, serving as our guide and utilizing the skills of your profession should the need arise?" Undevar nodded again.

"Hmm…" the woman hummed. "Perhaps it was fortunate that you hexed him, Theila. What did you even do, anyway?"

Theila quickly gave a flick of her wrist. A sharp zap in his abdomen made Undevar cry out, but all that came up was a shrill squawk. He saw the black-haired woman raise an eyebrow, and then say, "I didn't expect this level of immaturity from you." She gave a curt wave of her hand. "Lift the curse."

"We have to make sure he'll keep his word," Theila argued. "Why don't we wait until he fulfills his end of the deal before I lift it?"

"Because I'll need to ask him questions on the way, and I don't fancy him clucking at me," the sorceress replied sharply. "Besides, he'll keep his end of the deal." Her pale eyes regarded him one more time before she turned and disappeared back into the lodge.

When they were alone, Theila turned back to him. She said something briefly in Elder. Undevar felt his throat quickly contract and loosen. He quickly reached up to his neck, letting out a shaky breath. To his relief, the clucking had stopped.

"Tomorrow at dawn," Theila instructed, "meet us at Kaer Trolde Harbor."

"Tomorrow?" Undevar repeated. He shook his head. "Nay, not possible. I'll need at least a few days to prepare."

"What is there to prepare? You're a witcher—you can have your oils and potions ready by morning."

"It's not that simple," Undevar growled. "No witcher has sailed beyond Undvik, and for good reason. I'll need to ask around and see if anyone has any idea of what lies beyond. Doubt I'll find a decent source, but any clue is better than having none." Just the thought of sailing into the west was ridiculous. Undevar couldn't help but feel as though he had signed up for his death with this contract. It irked him that Theila was treating this so lightly, but that was her type—a pampered Continental that didn't know danger beyond having her toe stubbed on a marble staircase.

The sorceress glared at him. "Fine," she relented. "I'll let Niyette know." She went back into the lodge without saying another word.

Undevar blew out heavily through his mouth and turned away. What had he gotten himself into? He stepped away from the lodge and looked out to Kaer Trolde and the water beyond. Prepare? How could he prepare for the unknown? All of his witcher training had taught him that knowing his enemy was his greatest strength. Now he was being asked to fight with a veil over his eyes.

Undevar walked across the canal and back into town. He found Cahal in front of the tavern where both of their horses had been tied. "There you are," the younger witcher said. "You fucked off for so long I thought you were somewhere laying eggs."

"Had an errand to run," Undevar mumbled.

"Well look at that—words! I miss the clucking, though. Nearly shite myself laughing at it. How'd you get yourself sounding like that?"

"Long story," Undevar replied.

Cahal shrugged. "Fine. You'll eventually get pissed enough to tell me." He slipped a foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up on his horse. "We've had our fun here. Let's find another hapless town to terrorize."

"Can't," Undevar said, resting a hand over his horse's withers. "Found myself with a job." Again, his eyes wandered over to the water. "I'm headed to Sansira's Spire." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cahal look at him.

"What the hell kind of errand were you running?"

"I need to know what's between here and there," Undevar said. "Have any idea where I can start asking?"

"Mate, there's a fine line between bravery and stupidity," Cahal said. "And I know life ain't worth living unless you're standing at the very edge of that line, but going to places like the Coille na Draíocht and that spire is where you cross it."

"Last chance to help me, Cahal," Undevar said, looking back at the other witcher. "Otherwise I'm doing this on my own."

Cahal paused. "Try proximity," he said. "The people on the west coast of Undvik ought to know something at least." Undevar mounted his horse. "What are these wenches promising you?" Cahal continued. "Better at least be twice your weight in crowns and a few months of sex."

"Something like that," Undevar said, not wanting to admit that he'd be wrangled into the contract instead.

"Oi, mate, I hope some of that payment is transferable," Cahal snorted.

Undevar glowered at him. "For what?"

"For the advice about going to Undvik! That's worth a cut, aye?"

"Aye, I'll be sure to flick a few crowns your way," Undevar replied dryly. He heard Cahal give a retort, but had kicked his horse into a canter to escape whatever quip it had been. The spot where Undevar had left his boat was a few miles south of Kaer Trolde Harbor. When he found it, he dismounted from his horse to unlatch the ramp. It splashed down into the shallow water. The horse pulled back, but Undevar yanked harder on the reins and led it up into the boat. The tether was untied and the sails loosened. The boat began moving towards deeper water, and Undevar pointed the bow towards Undvik.

That island was the embodiment of the notion 'kill or be killed.' Mostly uninhabited by men, the rocky landmass was rife with monsters and beasts. The few clans living there had been hardened by the trials of survival. Given enough time, Undvik would see the slow invasion of islanders and the land would be tamed. To Undevar, it almost seemed tragic. He quite liked Undvik's feral environment as it was.

He landed on the island's east coast and brought his horse onto the shore. There, he mounted and navigated his horse over the uneven ground. Undevar had learned to exercise caution. He had already lost a horse to Undvik's relentless terrain. He had been thrown off, and the beast ended up with a broken leg. There had been nothing else to do but put a bolt into it and continue on without a steady form of transportation.

Undevar caught the old scent of wolves and even that of a bear, but there was nothing nearby that could pose a threat—for now, at least. He reached up, tucking his medallion behind his collar and closer to his skin. Given another half hour, he could reach the western edge of Undvik. And then he'd try and find out all the ways he could die at sea.

He felt his horse suddenly slow to a quick stop. Confused, Undevar looked around. There were no monsters, nor predators around. Yet still his horse was snorting and nervously stamping its hoof. Its ears swiveled, and then were quickly pinned flat.

Suddenly, there was a deafening roar. It drowned out the shrill whinny his horse gave as it reared. Undevar was just barely able to reach out and grab a fistful of its mane before he could be thrown off. It landed back down. Undevar flew forward into the horse's neck. The medallion in his collar was jumping as though struggling to escape.

A portal had opened near them, and from within it stepped a figure. Before Undevar was able to get a good look at them, his horse threw its head and gave a small buck. He pulled back on the reins and quickly cast Axii to calm the beast down.

Even with the use of the Sign, the horse was still incredibly nervous. It stepped in place. Frightened nickers rumbled from deep within its throat.

A soft, gentle voice shushed it. Undevar's eyes darted to her, and he recognized who had portaled in. Theila stepped slowly towards the horse, a hand extended. Undevar's medallion jolted, and he saw faint, misty-white waves pulse from her fingertips. The horse stopped jittering. Its ears came up and pointed towards her. It turned its head as the sorceress approached, and finally when she was close enough it stretched its nose out towards her. Another step brought Theila to it, and she stroked its pink nose.

Undevar was far from pleased at nearly being thrown off of this damned beast because of the sorceress's intervention. "What are you doing here?" It also peeved him that Theila had turned his horse into a lovesick puppy with her touch.

"Niyette wanted me to come along and learn about the perils at sea with you," Theila answered simply, still stroking the horse's nose. "A second pair of ears would do you some good. You know, to take in details you might miss."

"I don't need your help," Undevar growled. "So you can just zap on back to your little lodge and go brush your hair while I take care of things."

"Who do you think is calling the shots, witcher? You?" She finally looked up at him. Undevar noticed her eyes were a very distinct shade—green flecked with golden brown. "Remember, you came to us."

She was right and he hated that. Undevar looked up towards the horizon, biting down all the nasty things that had sprung up to his tongue. "I'm headed to the western coast," he grumbled. If this sorceress was planning on taking his horse, she'd have another thing coming to her.

Theila followed his gaze. "Western coast?"

"Aye. There's bound to be a fishing village or two."

"I doubt it. The coast isn't very safe. But then again, I'd not be surprised since you islanders are very keen on defying common sense." She turned back to Undevar. "I'll go on ahead and look around. Meet me there, and try not to get lost." She stepped away, and just as her foot came down another portal expanded in front of her. When she stepped through, the vortex quickly shrank into nothingness. All that was left was a panicked horse that quickly bucked its rider off and skittered several feet away.

* * *

Undevar had never visited Undvik's western shores before. If he had to guess, he'd assume all that was there were rocky beaches, drowners, and whatever other ungodly water creatures had wandered too close to land.

Instead, he found a fishing settlement—a large one. It sat by the water, and from it stretched a long pier. Several ships were anchored by it—heavy-duty vessels with masts that stretched high up. The sails were tied, but Undevar could tell they were big enough to block out the sun. Why was there such an established human presence here?

As Undevar cantered closer, he saw someone standing at the edge of the village. He could already tell whom it was given the long hair that billowed in the wind. As he neared, Undevar slowed the horse and jumped off before it had completely stopped. Flipping the reins over the horse's head, he led it as they closed the distance between them and the sorceress.

"I know. I'm just as surprised as you," Theila said, looking back to the village. "Quite a find. Aren't we lucky?" She pointed towards the pier. "Given this location, I think I have a pretty good idea of where those ships are being sailed to. Question is why."

"You going to keep asking me, or are you planning on talking to someone who actually owns those boats?"

"I wonder how fast a body has to be thrown across the water for the surface tension to break bones," Theila pondered softly.

"Then you'll be out of a guide."

"I could mend it all in an instant. You'd just wish you were dead. It's not a very pleasant experience."

Grinding his teeth, Undevar looked away and yanked his horse along. "We're losing daylight here," he muttered. Within the village, he found a small stable to keep his horse. The only other inhabitant there was a speckled mare and a noisy donkey. The long-eared plague even clacked its teeth at the witcher as he passed its stall.

Theila accompanied him as he went about the village trying to strike up conversations. The ones that did bother to answer him were tight-lipped in their responses. No one seemed willing to tell him why there was a village situated on what was arguably the most dangerous spot in Skellige.

One woman finally gave them a helpful lead. "Go to the docks and talk to the men there," she said. "My husband works there. He won't tell me much of what he does, but it's not my place to pry."

Undevar turned away, but he heard Theila say, "Thank you. And that's quite a beautiful necklace. What are those stones? I've never seen anything like them before."

"A gift from my man. He told me he bought it from a traveling jeweler."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Oi, lass!" Undevar grunted over his shoulder. "You're here to help, not drag behind." He didn't wait for her to respond and headed for the piers. He could still hear as the woman whispered to Theila, "Not a very cheery man you've saddled yourself with, is he?"

"No, and given who he is, that is to be expected," Theila replied sternly. "And we're not like that. We are merely traveling together."

Bah, let the hens gossip as they liked. Undevar wasn't about to stand around and let them chatter the sunlight away. He descended down the gentle slope that led to the pier. A tall building stood next to it. Judging from the stench of sea and blood that radiated from it, Undevar assumed it was the fishery where the daily catches were hauled into and cleaned.

He tried the door. It was locked. Then a shadow grew on the wood above him. "Ho there, mate!" came a booming voice. "Can't just go barging into places just 'cause you got curiosity itchin' your arse like a mite."

Undevar turned and found himself face-to-face with a man about as tall and wide as himself. His bronze hair was braided into a thick rope, and his beard was bunched together with a single band. Four distinct scars ran diagonally across his face, staring from just below his left eye, scoring his lips, and ending under the curve of his jaw. They were pale white. "The rule's simple," the man continued. "If you're not part of the crew, you're not allowed in there."

"Crew?"

"Aye. You've come to a town of fishermen. Our trade is the only thing that keeps us fed, so we don't want any wanderer mucking things up in there."

"What kind of fish is worth sailing west for?" Undevar asked.

The man snorted. "You won't find anyone here radge enough to sail out there, witcher. I'm sure you and your kind know what a death wish that is. But we're not scared either, and there isn't any competition crowding the waters with their nets. So long as we stick close to the island and don't stray, we'll keep coming back with full nets."

"So you're just fishermen?"

"Aye."

Undevar nodded towards the man's face. "And I suppose a fish gave you that?"

A cold look crossed his face. "Never said the job was safe. Sometimes the smell of a haul attracts those flying, screaming wenches. That's where this came from."

"What else have you encountered over the water?" Undevar lifted a hand in a reassuring manner. "Just asking. I've been asked to sail out west, and I want to know what kind of shite I'm headed towards."

The man guffawed. "You're sailing out to uncharted waters, mate? On your own? That's stupid, even for a witcher."

"I know," Undevar mumbled.

"I've never gone further out than three or four nautical miles," the man continued, "but I've heard—Och, Julian!" His voice suddenly jumped up to a harsh bark as someone opened the door behind Undevar. "Are you dead mad, you dumb fuckin' shite? Don't take that out here!"

But Undevar had already turned around to see who had emerged from the fishery. It was a tiny scrap of a boy still in his adolescent years. His brown, moppy hair hid his lowered face. At the man's shout, the boy jumped. A sharp, coppery smell hit Undevar's nose, and his eyes flew down to the bucket the young man was carrying. The water within it was heavily saturated with blood. Something long and shiny was floating in the crimson—entrails. They were big.

"Inside, you fuckin' goon!"

The boy immediately turned on his heel and fled back into the building. After the door slammed shut, Undevar turned back to the man. "Who was that?"

"Julian, the wee idiot. Too scrawny to help on the boats, so we have him cleaning up after the messes instead. Shame you had to see that." Then, in a dismissive tone, he added, "I've still got plenty more to do before the day ends, witcher. 'Fraid I can't help you with what you're looking for, but I hear there's a small clan a few miles south of here. Maybe they've sailed out further than us."

"Maybe. Mighty thankful for the help." Undevar ended his words with a nod. The man wouldn't budge until Undevar stepped away from the fishery. As he walked past the pier, he looked out at the boats. There were scratches crisscrossing the hulls—scores and scores of those four-lined marks.

Undevar looked back at the fishery, and then headed back into the village to find Theila. He followed the concentrated smell of flowers to the general store, where he found the sorceress chatting with the girl behind the counter. Their conversation fizzled to a close as the witcher stepped in. The girl lowered her eyes and Theila straightened up from leaning on the counter.

"You've been grand help all right."

Theila's eyes flashed with irritation. "I wonder if it would kill you to for once not be a headache," she replied. "Outside, witcher. Now."

He wasn't about to take commands from this witch, but he could tell she had something to tell him. He'd manage to learn fuck all from the fishery, and some information was better than none. They stepped out of the general store and walked around until they came to an empty, secluded spot. Finally, Theila turned back to him.

"That girl has told me some very interesting things about those fishermen at the pier," she said. "They often make runs to her store. Apparently they go down to the shore and set sail on their ships heavily armed."

"Every sailor in Skellige knows that an unarmed boat is a sunk one," Undevar says. "Don't think you see many sirens on the Continent, but here they're about as common as your aristocrats. And only slightly more annoying."

The sorceress looked vexed at having her clue shot down. "She's seen them come back too. They step back onto land dragging nets—opaque nets—moving about like something big was struggling inside. Bigger than a fish should be."

"What's the biggest fish you've seen, sorceress?" Undevar asked, crossing his arms. "A guppy?" He watched Theila take a slow, deep breath. His medallion jolted as she exhaled.

"You're a waste of space, just like your grandmaster," she hissed.

Undevar dropped his arms. He took a step towards her, backing her into the shadow of the building. "Say that again." Theila glared up defiantly into his eyes, but he could see the fear within them. He could hear her heart quicken.

Just then, a soft voice broke the tense spell. "A… are you the, um, witcher?"

Still seething, Undevar whirled around. He saw the boy jump back—the one from the fishery. "What?" the witcher barked.

"I-I just n-needed to know…!" the boy stammered, shaking like a leaf under the Bear's glower.

Undevar felt Theila grip his arm and give it a little pull. "What is it?" she asked.

"How…" The boy quietly cleared his throat and continued, "How can you tell if something is a monster, and if it's not?"

"What?" Undevar repeated, this time sounding more confused than outraged.

He could practically see the boy's courage snap just then. "N-never mind," he quickly mumbled. "I didn't—sorry, I'm sorry. Just… never mind!" He scurried away before Undevar had time to even contemplate what happened.

The witcher blinked. "What the hell was that?"

"I haven't the faintest clue," Theila replied. "And he dashed off before I had to chance to look into his mind."

Undevar let out a sigh, though it sounded more like a growl. "Doesn't matter. It was just some bairn that didn't know what he was talking about. The day's wasted—I haven't learned anything. The sun's setting, so there's naught else to do but find a bed for the night." He looked back at Theila. "Go back to your lodge. If I can't find an inn here, I'll set up camp." As Undevar began walking away, he pulled his medallion from out of his collar. He was sick of feeling it thrum.

"What is that?" he heard Theila asked. He turned back to see her pointing at something on his belt. Undevar looked down and saw the circular charm dangling at the end of a worn, grayed rope. He walked off without giving the sorceress an answer.

* * *

 _The city knew who could break_

 _It's got eyes_

 _It didn't let me scrape by_

 _I took what I had left_

 _And ran blind_

 _I became what I'm not_

 _And it's all they wanted_

 _The quiet in the room turned me cold_

"Let Me Love"—ARCHIS


	58. Chapter 58 - Land and Sea

_**Author's note: Happy new year, everyone! Here's to wishing you all a spectacular 2018, and hoping that this is the year this damn story finally gets finished lol.**_

* * *

When morning arrived, Undevar was already up and riding south. This particular contract kept him restless, and it made him wonder how well men on death row slept.

He had paused only for a second to consider waiting for Theila, and spent less time deciding against it. Undevar didn't have the patience to wait for her to wake up and powder her nose. Even if it made her mad enough to get smart with him or throw another curse his way, that other sorceress with the dagger eyes would temper her down. What a strange pair of wenches. He wondered if all Continental women were like them, or if that was just the way sorceresses were.

Following the coast for a few miles, Undevar did find remnants of what looked to be a temporary settlement. Old fire pits dotted the earth. Trees had been felled and trimmed into logs to serve as quick, makeshift benches. Thin wooden poles stuck up from the ground, though the tarps they once held up had been taken by along with the traveling clan. Undevar dropped down from his horse and stepped over to a nearby fire pit. He stooped down and pinched a bit of ash to rub between his fingers. He inhaled sharply, letting the stale cinders tell him what he already suspected. No one had been here for a while.

"Don't reckon we have the time to go chasing them down, do we?" Undevar said aloud to his horse. It ignored him, its head turned to stare towards a different direction. At that moment, Undevar's medallion began shaking against his collarbones. His eyes quickly darted to his surroundings, and then to the sky. The coast was clear, and he couldn't hear anything that might be hidden nearby. Then what was it reacting to? Theila?

He looked back at his horse. The beast was staring out at the water. Though it did not seem nervous, something had captured its attention. He gazed out and saw her—a pair of eyes just above the surface and golden-white hair that was darkened from the water. Just as the witcher spotted her, she disappeared underneath with a soft splash.

"Siren?" Undevar muttered softly to himself, placing a hand over his medallion and feeling its thrum die down. If that were the case, the crossbow on his back would be able to fly to his hands and take care of her in a heartbeat. He returned to the horse and pulled the reins to turn its head away from the water. "Best to head back," he told it. "Stock up on whatever we can before those snappy wenches drag me out to sea. I knew coming out here would be useless. Why did I even get my hopes up?" Undevar pulled himself up into the saddle and pointed his horse northward.

He let the beast climb up the coast at a leisurely pace. The rocks and gravel here made the ground too loose, and anything above a canter was too risky. Trotting was absolutely out of the question—Undevar hated the bouncing.

He listened to the gentle crashing of waves on the shore and the clattering of stones loosened by the horse's hooves. Undvik's even rock formations slowly passed him by, offering brief glimpses of the horizon behind them. Further north, the shore climbed up into tall, angular cliffs that bit into the sea like teeth. The vegetation that grew atop them had been reduced to green fur from this distance, making the cliffs look like moss-covered rocks.

Undevar turned his head and gazed in the opposite direction. The seas to the west looked no different than the seas he looked out to when at the guild—ones he often sailed out to. And yet no one had returned from this horizon, not the sailors, warriors, cartographers, or anyone else. Nothing returned from this voyages save for the occasional pieces of driftwood that would wash ashore. Some of them had held the etchings of familiar ship names.

Once, Undevar had heard through rumor, a vessel had returned. They had found it crashed ashore. No one was aboard, and all they found in it was a single dismembered head of one of the crew. Some called it a warning—the work of the gods to deter anyone else from attempting to sail westward. Others called it a threat, that whatever demonic entity lurked in those foreign waters had sent the ship back with a clear message of what it could do.

Undevar had called it bullshite. A ship had never come to shore—that was merely the fabrication of some fool who was tired of seeing driftwood wash up and wanted to scare a few folks.

But now as he rode along the shore, he looked out to the water and his mind wandered. He had seen the things that the Conjunction had spilled into this world. Curses, undead, creatures that defied logic, and a change in the very fabrication of their world that gave wenches the ability to make him sound like poultry. Though Undever still refused to believe in the story of the returned ship, he knew the things it made people murmur about could very well exist.

Movement in the water snapped the witcher out of his thoughts. He yanked his horse to a stop and pulled his crossbow from his back.

There was a form gliding effortlessly from the blue sea towards the shallow water. Though warped, the soft curves of a feminine waist and trailing pale hair were clear to the witcher. Seamlessly, she moved further towards the shore until the water was too sparse for her to swim. Still, she was unable to stand. In the place of legs, she had a long fish's tail that ended in a wide, shimmery fin.

The tide pulled back, drawing the ocean away from the rocks. The water that lapped around the mermaid's golden tail thinned and disappeared. Free from the sea, the tail morphed. The jewel-like scales shrank. They became golden droplets that glided down her newly formed legs.

The mermaid stood, walking slowly towards the witcher atop his horse. Her pale hair stuck to her skin, water streaming from their tips down her bare body. She was as stunning as mythical women were, but Undevar was wary. He had been taught that their beauty was merely a façade to distract the eyes from the monster underneath. He kept his crossbow loosely at his side.

It was a common misconception, even among some witchers, that sirens and mermaids were the same. Mermaids were just as dangerous, though they preferred avoiding men to attacking them. Sirens, even with their alluring voices and scaly tails, were nothing like their depth-dwelling sisters. Up until now, Undevar himself hardly knew the difference. But here, as he held gazes with a creature whose eyes told him he knew so little of the world, he did.

"He told me of you," she said, her melodic as soft and rhythmic as the foam-crested waves. "And why you came here. I have swum through the waters between here and the spire of the gods hundreds of times. I know of what you will encounter should you sail out."

Between encountering this mermaid and hearing what she was saying, Undevar could hardly believe that he was awake. If he hadn't been frozen from awe, he would've pinched himself to free himself from this bizarre dream. "Daughter of the sea, to whom do I speak to?"

"My name is Iníomara, and I am in need of your help. In exchange, I will tell you all that I can of the waters beyond here."

 _There's the catch_. Undevar couldn't imagine what a mermaid would want from him. "Name your price."

"You must return to the nest of men and free my sisters."

"Your sisters are trapped in that village?"

"Once, we ventured from our territory and dared to explore the waters close to land. We did not fear men enough, and that was our mistake."

Undevar lowered his eyes and suddenly recalled the fishery. He saw the bucket filled with blood and the guts that floated in it—entrails big enough to belong to a human. Or something close.

"The youth named Julian—he allowed me to escape. Please, bring him to me. He risked his life for me, and I fear for him."

"Julian?" Undevar repeated. "That wee bit of dog scran?"

"He was kind. I could see he disagreed with what the loud, harsh men did but had been too frightened to defy them."

Undevar felt a dull pain in his throat. He swallowed it down. "And he finally found the courage to do it?"

"Yes. He promised to return to me near here once he released my sisters. But I have waited, and now I grow worried."

Reaching back, Undevar fastened the crossbow back with his swords. "Return to the water, Iníomara," he said. "Wait for me here. I'll have him with me."

"Please be swift, witcher." The mermaid stepped back onto the wet rocks and sat down, folding her legs beside her. The tide returned, welling up around her. Pale skin became golden and quickly formed the ridges of hundreds of scales. A long fin sprouted from the end of her tail. She rolled onto her stomach, letting the tide cover her, and rocketed into the deep blue waves.

Undevar kicked his horse into a gallop. The fishing village came into view, drawing closer as they thundered across the rocks. When he came to the pier, he found the fishery door smashed in and Theila waiting for him.

"You've been grand help all right," she told him.

* * *

When Theila returned to the village in the morning, the witcher was missing. He had gone on without her. To be fair, she should've seen this coming. Theila walked over to a cart surrounded by crates of produce and sat atop one. With a sigh, she wondered if it was at all possible to pretend to Niyette that she had followed the witcher around, and that they had found nothing of use. She was tired of having to track him down. Besides, all he was good at was raising her blood pressure to head-pounding levels.

Theila's eyes drifted down to the pier and that building—fishery, the witcher had called it. She was certain there was something being hidden there, but the witcher was adamant on going south because he was too thick to recognize a solution even if it punched him in the nose.

The sorceress rose. Undevar might have decided to overlook this lead, but she wasn't going to. It would be quick—all she needed to do was take a peek into one of the fishermen's heads.

She went down the slope with delicate steps, careful to not let the loose rocks slip out from underneath her heeled boots. The smell that grew with proximity to the fishery was unbearable—it reminded her of the outdoor fish market in the bazaar in Lan Exetor. Except this one was unbelievably worse. There was something else coupled with the marine stench, and Theila couldn't put her finger on what it was.

Rickety boards had been laid on the ground in front of the fishery entrance to level the muddy floor. Theila stepped carefully across the boards. They wobbled in the squelching sludge. The stink was unbearable, and Theila realized it reminded her of a butcher shop.

The shrill scream of a woman rang out from within the fishery. Theila's heart jumped at the sound. She hurried across the teetering boards and pounded on the door.

There was no answer. Why on earth was she knocking at a time like this? In her panic, the sorceress uttered a quick spell that threw the door open, ripping its latch from the wall. Theila ran in.

Immediately, the stench hit her like a blow. Theila's eyes watered, and she coughed as she scanned the room.

The entrance to the fishery led to a small, dark room. Netting, ropes, hooks, and other fishing equipment were hung on walls. Crates were shoved into the corners of the room, some open to reveal the slimy piles of chum they held. A pair of work boots leaned against the wall.

Theila spied another door just beyond a stack of crates. She hurried to it and, finding it unlocked, burst through. Here, there were long, deep troughs lining the walls. The floor was covered in water, and Theila caught a small splash come from the top of one of the troughs. As she rushed past them, she saw the shimmery bodies of fish moving in the dark water. There were voices beyond—loud and angry. Theila discerned no words from their shouts, though she heard a familiar voice cry out, "Stop! I'm sorry!"

The source of the voices was coming from beyond a doorway covered in waxed hide. Theila pushed through the drapes.

Despite the urgency, what she saw made her stop. Instead of troughs, this wide room had large glass tanks filled with murky green water. There were… there were _people_ in them! Women that, at the sorceress's entrance, rushed to the glass and pressed their hands against it. Their faces, framed by locks of swirling hair, held expressions of terror. Theila raised a hand that glowed with energy, prepared to crack the glass. Then, she hesitated.

Through the translucent water, she caught a glimpse of what looked to be… a large fin? She walked closer to the glass.

The woman in the tank was not a woman at all. Inches beneath her belly button, skin grew into magenta fish scales and extended out into a long tail. "Mermaids!" Theila whispered in wonder. Her awe was broken when the mermaid struck her palms against the glass and looked across the room.

"Get that thing back in its tank!" Theila heard a male voice bark. It wasn't a Skelliger. "Don't forget that you have a quota to fill! If the duchess doesn't get her dress by the end of the week, we'll _all_ be in hot water! I'll deal with this one myself!"

"You can't! It's murder!" It was the boy, Theila realized.

"Shut your gob, Julian!" a Skelliger snapped. "Should have known better than to trust a pathetic shite like you—so desperate to stick your wee knob into a fish's fanny that you fucked up all of our hard work!" Theila heard someone being struck, and the boy cried out. "The gold ones are the hardest to catch! Swear, if you tossed that one back into the sea I'll fucking saw your knob off!"

"Enough! Quit yapping and get that thing back in the water!" the foreigner ordered. "It'll take hours for her scales to mature again. We'll make do without gold—just double the amount of scales she wanted on the damned thing!"

"We've only got three left, including this one."

"Better go fishing soon, then."

Heavy footsteps grew louder. The hide drapes at the opposite end of the room flew apart. A large, bulky man barged in. A naked girl stumbled in after him, dragged by her arm. He froze when he saw Theila.

Blind panic seized the sorceress, and she quickly threw a paralysis spell at him. The man dropped like a boulder, and the girl fell onto her knees. Theila rushed over, pulling her back up. "Run up to the village," she told her. "Find one of the women and tell them what happened."

The girl quickly shook her head. As soon as Theila let her go, she sank back down as though her legs wouldn't work. "They're all like this," she said in a terrified whisper. "There is only safety within the waves."

"Hurry up and start harvesting!" the Continental said. "Bring out the purple one!" Theila looked back and saw the mermaid with the magenta tail shrink back. She shot Theila one last look before retreating into the depths of the tank.

Theila turned back to the girl. "Hide," she ordered in a hushed voice. The girl pulled herself up with the wall and stumbled past the sorceress. Theila readied herself, pulling Chaos to her body. She admitted to herself that she was utterly terrified. Never before had she faced anyone in this hostile a manner—she was only a mage scholar, for goodness' sake! She didn't how many there were here, but she was facing them alone.

A muffled thud caught her attention. Theila looked back. A second mermaid had appeared at the edge of the tank, this one with an emerald-green tail. When Theila met her eyes, the mermaid opened her mouth. Soft, feminine lips peeled back to suddenly reveal long, pointed teeth. The hands against the glass had sharp, curved talons. Then, suddenly, the wicked points disappeared and the mermaid returned to the appearance of a sweet young maiden. It was a message—she wasn't alone. Theila nodded.

Creeping to the covered door, she pulled a hide strip aside and peered through the crack. What she saw beyond made her heart stop. For a moment, the sorceress was sure she had been confronted with hell.

Four separate pools occupied the center of the room. Each was about four feet in diameter. Above them dangled sharp, curved hooks. Three of the pools were empty, but one of them still showed the aftermath of what the Continental had referred to as 'harvesting.' The upper body of a dead mermaid hung listlessly above the last pool. The hook stabbed into the underside of her chin, jutting out of her mouth. She had been strung up like a pig in a butcher's shop. Her body was cut in half just inches below her belly button. Entrails drooped from the grisly opening into the opaque, blood red pool below her.

Racks bordered the edges of the room, holding stacks of skinned, heavy tails. The floor around them was pooled with thick crimson. Atop tables were more descaled tails. Streams of blood trailed onto the floor. The overwhelming smell of blood was dizzying.

Theila dropped the hide and stepped back, drawing a heavy breath. She suddenly remembered what she had said to the woman back in the village.

 _That's quite a beautiful necklace. What are those stones? I've never seen anything like them_.

That necklace hadn't been bought from a traveling jeweler. Theila felt sick. Her stomach threatened to empty its contents.

"What is taking that damned fool so long?" she heard the Continental snap from behind the drapes. "These islanders! Only thing they're good for is risking their hides out at sea!" Theila backed away from the drapes when she heard footsteps. "Get over here, boy! It's time you get your comeuppance!"

There were the sounds of scraping—someone being dragged. "S-stop!" the boy pleaded. He was crying. "They're not monsters! They talk and feel! They're people!"

"Sirens look like people! So do bruxae! Nymphs! But they're not people, you idiot! They're monsters—just about as human as the animals that run around in the wilderness, shitting on themselves and eating their own young! See for yourself! I'll have you thrown into their tank, and you'll witness just how people-like they are!"

The drapes flew apart and they appeared. The boy was pulled harshly along by a middle-aged man dressed in elegant robes—an emissary sent by the duchess that had demanded Skelligan mermaid scales. Theila was in mid-spell when they appeared, but she quickly stopped.

The emissary had quick reflexes. The moment he saw the sorceress, he pulled the boy in front of him and had a knife at his throat. "Try anything and I'll have him bleeding," he hissed.

Theila lowered her hands, her eyes flickering from the emissary and his hostage to the tank. After quick deliberation, she took a small step to the left. The emissary moved to his right to keep his distance from the sorceress.

"Which duchess do you work for?" Theila demanded. "You should know the poaching of mermaid tails is declared illegal in five nations."

"That's none of your business, witch!" the emissary snapped. "Stay back, or I'll kill this boy!"

"Planning on feeding him to the mermaids?" Theila challenged. She took another step.

The emissary stepped back. He was a cruel, horrible man, but he had never taken a life before. One glimpse into his head told Theila this, and she knew it would take a lot before he could drag that blade across the young man's throat. She only hoped it gave her enough time. "Once the duchess knows you've been behind this disruption, she'll have you burned!"

"And who will tell her?" Theila stepped forward again. He stepped back. So close now…

"No, I won't have to tell her." The emissary narrowed his eyes. He pressed the knife closer to the boy's neck. "I'll have you killed right here—you'll be fed to these monsters too! Or I'll have the fishermen tie rocks to your ankles and drop you into the sea. After they do whatever they please with you, of course. I'm sure they'll have no objections to that."

Theila took another step. "If only you had the chance." Magic shot through the air, shattering the lock that had kept the lid of the tank shut. Immediately, it flew open. A wave emerged from the top and a mermaid shot out. With her fangs, she latched onto the emissary's shoulder, her talons digging into his skin. The man cried out, letting Julian go. Before he could raise his knife, a second mermaid arose and grabbed him. The two of them pulled him back into the tank. The lid shut with a bang. Through the glass, Theila saw only thrashing limbs. Then, red curled and quickly colored the water until she saw nothing else.

She turned away, unwilling to imagine what was going on inside there. Instead, she focused on the boy who was sitting on the ground and hyperventilating. He shied back when Theila crouched next to him.

"You're safe," she told him. "I won't let them hurt you."

"You don't understand," he sobbed. "I was helping them! I-I…" He curled up, shielding his face with his arms.

Theila looked up when she heard voices. The rest of the men were returning to the fishery. Before she could do anything, the hide drapes were drawn back and the fishermen bore witness to what had happened in their absence. They looked to the tank saturated in red, and then to the sorceress and Julian curled up next to her. They turned on their heels and fled.

A soft scuffling captured Theila's attention. Julian stood, still quivering like a leaf. "I have to free them," he said in his soft, meek voice. "P-promised her I would."

"Wait! Careful!" Theila said. But Julian had already lifted the lid to the tank.

She was terrified that arms would reach out and grab him—that she would see him pulled into the red water. But that didn't happen. Instead, the mermaids emerged from the crimson water with gentle faces. He pulled them out of the tank one by one. Then, he led the three last mermaids out of the fishery and to the shore. Theila followed slowly after them, watching silently as Julian helped the one who had trouble walking to the pier. From there, the mermaids dove into the water. Their faces appeared above the surface one last time to look back at the man who had saved them, and then they vanished into the water.

Standing at the base of the pier, Theila told him, "That was very brave of you, what you did."

"You should have let him kill me." Julian's eyes stayed on the water.

"Don't blame yourself for what they did."

"I cleaned up after them because they paid me!" He sounded on the verge of crying again. "How does that make me any better than them?" He whirled around to face her. "I should be dead too! You're a mage, aren't you? You should help me!"

"Are you insane?" Theila replied incredulously.

Julian suddenly rushed at her. "I-I'll kill you if you don't kill me first!" He swung a fist so pitifully the sorceress was about to move out of its way. Quickly, she locked him in place. She delicately touched his forehead, intent on seeing the source of his pain.

Telemancy was an intricate form of magic, and her skills were still vastly underdeveloped. Instead of pulling just a few memories, Theila found herself burning through years worth of his life in an instant. The sheer amount of information she suddenly became exposed to would have destroyed a lesser mind. In a matter of seconds, Theila had read the life of the boy named Julian.

She saw his childhood, or the lack of one. He had never known his father, and his mother remarried after her husband's death. This man hated him, beating him for everything he saw wrong in the boy. Julian had still been just a child when he ran from home, stowing away on a ship to Undvik. He never heard from his mother or that man again.

On the rocky island, he didn't fare much better. He would've died had he not been picked up by the men that would eventually become the mermaid hunters on the coast. They kept him for little more than entertainment. When people from the Continent came on behalf of their rulers in search of the famed mermaid scales, the fishery on the coast was established.

The Skelligers sailed out west, risking and often losing lives to capture mermaids. Julian had been little help at sea, so they tried having him slaughter his first mermaid instead. But he couldn't bring the blade to her body. She was too human-like. When he was unable to do it, they shoved a bucket and rag into his hands in order to make him useful. And so he became the boy that cleaned after the messes.

The fishermen were overjoyed when they caught their first golden mermaid. Such a color was exceedingly rare, and they knew they would get good coin from this one.

While she was in captivity, he fed her like he did the others—dropping chum through the grate at the top of their tank. She would linger there by the surface, ignoring the pieces of rotting fish sinking around her. He couldn't help but look at her. She was so beautiful.

Julian had never been loved by anyone, and especially not women. He wasn't muscular like the fishermen, or brave enough to kill mermaids and take their scales. He wasn't any of the things he ought to be, and girls never gave him a second look.

But this one watched him every time he passed by the tank. She would always be there—hands pressed up to the glass. Whenever he dumped chum into the water, she would ask him for his name and he would ignore her.

Eventually he gave in and told her. And he continued falling into the downward spiral until he found himself sitting by the tank, talking to her. She told him of the sea—of the coral that were more colorful than any flowerbed on land, of the schools of fish that could be seen darting about, and of the whales that sang so beautifully it could break your heart. She asked about his life, and he made up a past about being born on Undvik so he wouldn't sound so pitiful to his amazing companion.

It had been a cold rainy day, and everyone else had decided to take the day off and stay at home. Julian couldn't, so he was the only one at the fishery. When it was feeding time, she had asked him if he could open the grate. The fishermen had told him explicitly that he was never, ever to lift the grate to the tanks.

He did it anyway.

She lifted herself above the water, up to his height. And he had been so mesmerized that he was frozen in place while she placed a wet hand on his cheek and leaned towards him. Julian had gotten his first kiss that day.

Despite it all, he knew better. There was a dog that came by the fishery every so often and wagged its tail every time it saw Julian. But it didn't care for him. All it wanted were the fish heads that he would toss out to it.

It was the same with her. There was no way her affection could be genuine. If the men where she came from were like her, then there was no reason to bother with a yellow-bellied, land-dwelling boy like him other than for what he could give her—freedom. Salvation from being speared through the jaw on the hook and having her tail sawed off to be worn by some socialite at a ball. But he still sat by her and spoke to her. Even when he knew the truth, it was too late for him. Julian was already hopelessly and desperately in love.

It wouldn't be like this forever. One day, he overheard the fishermen talking about a duchess that wanted golden scales on her gown. Even though he was scared, he knew that if he didn't act now, she would die and her blood would be on his hands. He was going to save her even if he would never see her again.

By nightfall, he had snuck back into the fishery and taken her out of the tank. There were no guards or dogs around—the mermaids acted as them on their own. They had already proven to the fishermen that they would spare no lives of anyone foolish enough to open the tank. But when Julian did, she had only held his hand as he led her out of the fishery and down towards the water. He told her he would let the others go too. She asked what would become of him. He told her he would be fine, and she insisted that they reunite on safer shores.

Theila saw all of this, and she saw what Julian had thought as he made his way back to the fishery. He would free the other mermaids, but he wouldn't go where she had told him to meet her. Women never gave him a second look, and he knew he would be waiting on that shore until sunrise.

No, he was going to run further inland—to some place where he would never have to see the sea again. Julian was tormented by what he had done. They had screamed before they died, and all he'd done was keep his head down and clean up the blood. So tormented was his heart, he begged for release. He would have killed himself to get away from it all, but he was too scared to take his own life. Perhaps if he were lucky, he would be able to stumble upon a den of bears or wolves.

Theila opened her eyes. Julian was unconscious on the pier. The exposure to telemancy had knocked him out cold. Gently, Theila walked over to him and lifted him up. He was so light compared to the fishermen. She carried him back to the fishery, but laid him on a patch of grass. She wasn't bringing him back in there again.

The boy was so young, and already he was resolved to live the remainder of his life in misery. Theila wondered what might be done for him. She could bring him back to Niyette and have her alter his memories. He could be taken to Kovir and become an apprentice to some trade. Then, maybe, he'd finally have a life that treated him well.

Theila was on the verge of opening a portal when she heard the thundering of hooves. She stopped feeding the budding portal, and it shrank back into nothingness. The witcher galloped up the coast. Upon reaching the fishery, he jumped down from the saddle. The riderless horse slowed to a stop, panting as foaming sweat dripped from its chest. Theila crossed her arms and waited as Undevar marched up to the fishery. Her eyes climbed to remain on his face as he drew near.

"You've been grand help all right."

Undevar hesitated when he saw the smashed door. "Did you find…?"

"The mermaids? Oh, yes."

"Who were these men?"

"Poachers," Theila answered. "And I bet they had to sail pretty far west to find those mermaids."

"What about the boy?" Undevar grunted. "Where's that runt?"

Theila uncrossed her arms. "Did you hear me? These fishermen know what lies west. They ran back into the village. We can find one and—."

"Already have a contact that'll tell me everything I need to know," Undevar interrupted. "But I need that little shite first."

"Julian—his name is Julian," Theila said, her brow furrowing. "Quit being an ass. You have no idea what he's gone through."

"Why don't you go be soft somewhere else?" Undevar shot back, looking around. "Haven't got the ears willing to put up with your bullshite."

Suddenly, the witcher's limbs stiffed and locked. His knees were forced to bend, and he knelt motionless in front of the sorceress. With her hands still opened wide, Theila raised it over his head and pulled it back so he was looking up at her. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded angrily. "Were you raised to be a despicable piece of slime, or were you just born this way?" She didn't give him a chance to answer and suddenly threw him away from her with a forceful push. A small trench was carved deep where the witcher skidded through the mud. "Julian is not going with you. I'm taking him to—."

She stopped as she turned. The patch of flattened grass was empty. She saw a flash of movement disappear around the corner of the fishery. "Julian!"

"Just fucking perfect," Undevar said as he rose, articulating each word with a growl. Theila ignored him and quickly teleported around the building in a quick flash. She saw Julian scrambling up the hill. The boy was quick—he'd disappeared over the top, and her paralysis spell clipped the grass instead.

Again, she zapped to the top of the hill. Julian was running into the village. He panicked when he looked over his shoulder and saw that she was still close behind. "Get away! Leave me alone!"

"Stop, Julian! I want to help you!"

"Help?" screeched a nearby voice. Theila slowed when she saw the trio of women stepping up to block her path. One of them was the woman who wore the scale necklace. "Heard what happened from the lads," she said, her voice lined with pain and anger. "You've let them all go—destroyed everything we had!"

"And you lied to me!" Theila accused.

"For good reason! A soft-bellied Continental lass like you wouldn't understand! This is how those of us who don't hide away in porcelain manors live, how our men make sure we don't wither away into bones! We knew this was how you'd react! You're the kind who'd lose her stomach just seeing a rabbit be prepared."

"Those mermaids are sentient!" Theila hissed. "They knew what was happening to them. Do you? Have any of you even set foot in there?" She thrust a finger back towards the fishery. "They were being sawed in half just so their scales could be peeled off!"

"They're monsters! No different to the sirens that drown men every day!" another woman shot back. "We've got plenty of widows here because of those things. Why aren't they aware that the men they tear to shreds have families?"

The third woman nodded towards something behind Theila. She heard heavy footsteps coming up to her. "Ask him—the witcher! He would know!"

When it was just Theila, the women had no problem blocking the path. But with Undevar facing them, Theila could see their resolve starting to break. In a low voice, the witcher asked, "Where'd that runt run off to?"

"What are we to do now, witcher? Tell us! It was your woman that ruined the fishery!"

Undevar glanced carelessly down at Theila, and then stepped forward. A way through was immediately made for the witcher. "Head south. Catch otters," he mumbled as he passed them. "They're fast, but they won't kill your husbands." Theila followed in infuriated silence after him. There was no way she was letting him take Julian.

Up ahead, she saw figures struggling. A band of men were crowded in a circle while something squirmed between them. "You started this whole mess!" they barked. "Hold his hand out! Break a finger for every one he set loose!"

The commotion was interrupted when Undevar reached the crowd and shoved the nearest man aside. He barreled through another, clearing the way until Julian was in front of him. The boy's arms were being pinned back, and his head held by the hair.

"I'm taking this one," Undevar said bluntly. He grabbed Julian's arm, but the men were reluctant to let him go.

"Aye? And what are you going to do with him?"

"Deal with him myself."

They released him, and Undevar yanked the boy to him and began dragging him back towards the coast. Julian struggled helplessly against him. "Make it painful, witcher!" they shouted after him.

"P-please, don't! I had to do it! I'm sorry! I-I—!"

"Shut up, runt, before you start getting on my nerves," Undevar snapped. He ignored Theila as she marched straight for them. "There's someone on the shore you've kept waiting." The sorceress paused.

"Y-you're lying!" Julian stammered. "She wouldn't have come back! She doesn't care!"

"Nay, runt, _I_ don't care. But she won't help me until drag your sorry arse to her, so you better walk with your dignity or I'll carry you like the useless sack you are."

"Undevar, you—."

Still dragging the boy, Undevar glared back at Theila. "You want to get to Sansira's Spire alive or not?" he demanded. Suddenly, Julian fell down onto his knees to stop himself from being dragged. Undevar looked down, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Don't take me back to her!"

"And why the fuck not?"

"I… I let it happen! They killed so many, and I just… I just let it—!" He pulled back when Undevar tried yanking him to his feet. "I can't—I don't ever want to see her again! Please, just let me go!"

Undevar turned to the boy, lifting him up off the floor by his arm and throwing him down. Stooping down, he grabbed Julian's collar and pulled him close until their faces were inches apart.

"You listen to me, you fuck," the witcher snarled, his voice eerily soft. "You got the chance to save her—be there when she needed you. She's alive and she's waiting for you. That mermaid thinks you're a good man, so you better grow a goddamn pair and fucking be the man she thinks you are. Otherwise I will tear off each of your toothpick limbs and shove them down your throat, aye? You getting me, runt?" Julian nodded, barely moving his head.

Undever hauled the boy up to his feet. This time, Julian didn't resist. Theila quickly stopped the both of them. "I can get us there quicker," she said.

"If you're referring to those loud, swirling arseholes, then I'm not interested."

"Witcher," Theila warned. He stopped and abided with a scowl. He told her which part of the coast to aim for, and she opened the portal. Then, she beckoned them in. With a grunt, Undevar trudged through the portal with Julian in tow.

When they emerged on the other side, Theila noticed how turbulent the water had become. Earlier, the waves had climbed the shores in gentle caresses. Now they crashed over the rocks, throwing at foam that hissed and bubbled. Apart from the three of them, no other soul was in sight. A few minutes passed, and nothing changed.

Undevar let go of Julian, walking down to the wet, foamy shore. "Iníomara!" he boomed out over the water. "I brought the boy! We had a deal!" Julian sat down on the gravelly ground.

"She's free now. Why would she come back?" he muttered.

Theila knelt down next to him. "Julian," she said. "She'll be here. We'll wait with you." She heard Undevar mutter something under his breath and begin to pace. Turning back to the boy, she said, "I want you to know that you're not a bad person. Not at all."

"But—."

"What could you have done? If you had tried to fight back, they would have hurt you. They would have hurt her. But that's all behind you now. Keep walking with your head up, and don't look back."

"What if she doesn't come?"

Before Theila could answer, Undevar glared back and growled, "Then I'll fucking go out meself and drag her back to land."

Julian dipped his head down. "Don't listen to him," Theila told him. She hesitated, and then suddenly wrapped her arms around him and pulled him against her. Startled, he squirmed. Then he stilled. "You thought about your mother a lot when you first ran away, didn't you?" she whispered to him.

"She didn't care," he replied quietly. "Not whenever he hit me. I don't think she even cared when I went missing. I don't think anyone did."

Theila draped a hand over his hair. "There is always someone who cares," she said. "Even if it's someone you didn't notice. A stranger you smiled at while you passed them. A person who recognized a kind heart when they saw one." She looked down at Julian. "A sorceress who's only known you for a day."

Julian leaned his head against her shoulder. "I wish I had a ma like you," he said. "Then maybe I wouldn't have lost her."

Theila was quiet. She looked over at the witcher, noticing that he had stopped pacing and was watching them. When their eyes locked, Undevar quickly looked away and turned back to the sea.

For a while, all was quiet except for the crashing water. After a moment, the waves seemed to calm down. The ocean shushed like a mother cooing to her child. The day was aging, and Theila wondered if perhaps there really was nothing to reward their wait.

Then she heard the witcher say, "You're late."

She lifted her eyes. So did Julian. From the water there emerged a figure—a head and shoulders. She disappeared, becoming a dark form beneath the surface, and glided closer to shore. As the water pulled away, she emerged from the swirling white tide. Her golden tail was shed and she stood to walk towards them.

Beside Theila, he lowered his head. "She's here for him. She's not here for—."

"Julian!" her dulcet voice was filled with joy. She hurried past the witcher. Unable to help himself, Julian stood and rushed to her. When the distance between them was closed, he hugged her tightly. Iníomara lifted her face and kissed him.

When they parted, she held his face between her hands. "My people did not want me to return," she told him. "But my freed sisters appeared and convinced them to let me go. They told them of your deeds."

"Why me, Iní?"

"When I was captured, I was so scared. But you made me feel safe. Those moments you sat with me—they are worth more to me than the water, the whale songs. I want stay with you forever."

There was a single tear that fell down the boy's cheek as he heard this. "I love you, Iní."

The mermaid's eyes lit up, her smile just as bright. It seemed Julian then realized that his hands on her back were touching bare skin. He pulled back, his eyes dropping down to her naked body. Quickly, he bashfully averted his gaze and withdrew his arms to unbutton his vest. He wrapped it around her, his hands lingering around her.

"The witcher brought you back to me. For that, I shall tell him what he wishes to know." Iníomara looked back at the shore. So did Theila, and she realized that Undevar was no longer there. The sorceress rose to her feet.

"I'll find him," she told them. He had to be nearby. She flashed a short distance up the shore. Here, rock formations rose up like pillars. The dotted the shores and shallow water. Theila walked through them, and as they parted she saw the witcher sitting silently on a short formation.

She witnessed him as he was for a split second before he noticed she was there. Undevar stared out at the sea, looking unusually forlorn. Something was held in his open hand. Theila caught a glimpse of a worn braid of string with a circular shell charm at the end.

Immediately, the witcher closed his fist and the charm disappeared within it. His face defaulted to a scowl and he leaned forward onto his knees. "Watching that wench and her coward was making me want to boak," he grumbled.

"What's going on? Why do you have such a personal grudge against that boy?"

"Because he's a soft, jelly-boned runt who's only survived this long because even Freya doesn't want him," the witcher answered angrily. "He's weak!"

"He is not weak," Theila replied sternly. "Maybe by your convoluted definition, he is. He's just a boy who hung onto his purity despite all the things everyone has put him through. If that's what you think weakness is, then maybe what you see as strength isn't worth having."

He didn't respond for a while. The ocean filled in the heavy silence. Then, it was broken. "Is she ready to talk?" Undevar demanded.

"Yes."

He stood. Once again, Theila asked, "What is that?"

This time, the witcher stopped. His eyes flickered down and his fist loosened. In that instant, his mask dropped and Theila saw a completely different man underneath. Then he was gone.

"Nothing, just… _nothing,"_ he said sharply, suddenly throwing the thing down onto the wet sand. He strode past Theila.

The sorceress reached down and picked the old charm up.

* * *

 _But she said, where'd you wanna go?_

 _How much you wanna risk?_

 _I'm not looking for somebody_

 _With some superhuman gifts_

 _Some superhero, some fairytale bliss_

 _Just something I can turn to_

 _Somebody I can kiss_

"Something Just Like This"—Chainsmokers, Coldplay


	59. Chapter 59 - The Waters to the West

It was already dark when Theila brought the young couple back to her lodge. She wasn't sure Niyette would be pleased by the extra company, but Theila wasn't about to leave the two of them on their own on Undvik.

A familiar smell filled the lodge as she walked in. Niyette was brewing.

She called out for her mistress and was answered by a curt, "In here," coming from the small kitchen. When she walked in, she found Niyette's back turned. The round edges of a cauldron peeked out from behind the sorceress. Niyette's hand swirled in lazy circles over the pot, and the liquid inches below her fingertips moved in the same pattern. A floating container of black powder tipped a small amount of its contents into the cauldron, causing the concoction to bubble, hiss, and then quiet down. Once it did, a piece of stringy, fuzzy root was thrown into the mixture. It fizzed and quickly disappeared into the stirred liquid.

Niyette pulled her hand away and took a ladle that perched against the lip of the cauldron. She filled the two cups that hovered next to her. Once they had been filled to their brims, she took them and turned. One was offered to Theila.

"Not for you," Niyette said bluntly when Julian gazed quizzically at the cup. "It would make you very ill. And probably kill her," she added with a brisk wave towards Iníomara.

"I have heard that the mages of men ingest toxic substances to enhance their powers," the mermaid said, watching Theila drink from her cup.

"Correct," Niyette answered. "Though what you have heard is merely partial truth." As Theila downed her potion, Niyette held it delicately in her hand and examined the two guests. Then, bringing the cup close to her lips, she said, "A child and a mermaid. Friend of yours?"

"Bride to be," Iníomara corrected. Julian glanced at her.

Niyette's eyebrows rose just slightly. "Love is blind," she remarked. Julian looked back up, though he didn't say anything. "Ready them a room, Theila. Not near mine. And," she said, looking directly at Julian, "Melitele be kind to you if I am awoken by any raucous thumping tonight. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes'm."

"Enjoy your stay." Niyette turned away. She threw her head back, emptying her cup, and then said, "Theila, I'd like a word after you're done."

"Of course." Theila led the young couple out of the kitchen and found them a small room within the lodge. A wave of her hand and a spell brought the room to life as it tidied itself. The pillows jumped as they fluffed themselves, and a sheet slid over the mattress to meet them. A few pieces of equipment that had been stored there skittered out of the door, and dust was smooth away from surfaces. "Don't worry about her," Theila told Julian as towels flew out from a drawer and settled in neat folds over its top. "Niyette's rigid, but she won't hurt you." She looked over to the window across the room. The curtain drew back on its own, revealing the pitch black outside, and then was quickly closed. "It's late," she said. "Rest well. And Iníomara—thank you for helping us."

The mermaid smiled and leaned her cheek against Julian's shoulder. "One good deed for another," she replied. "I have told the witcher what he needs to know. The rest is up to him." She lifted her head and continued, "Now I bid you to rest well, Lady Theila. You've a long journey ahead of you."

Theila returned to the kitchen where her mistress waited. The cauldron was gone, though the unsavory aroma of its potion still lingered in the air. Niyette stood with her arms crossed, a finger tapping lightly against her arm.

"I couldn't just leave them on their own," Theila started.

"This isn't about them," Niyette dismissed. "Progress on the witcher's preparations—what of that?"

"Better than I could have hoped for," Theila replied, relieved at the opportunity to deliver good news to her mistress. "The girl—the mermaid, knows what is out there. She told all to the witcher."

"Hm." Niyette never seemed to take good news like anyone else would—positively. "And what is he doing now?"

"Preparing—his words. He told me he'd be ready by morning. He also said he'd need our help on the way to the spire."

"Is that so?" Niyette's tone grew light with intrigue. "Did he say that now? While retaining his complete free will?"

Theila shrugged. "Maybe deep under all the rotten fish crowding that skull, there's still a bit of sense."

* * *

Despite Iníomara's bidding, Theila retired to bed only to spend countless hours tossing and turning. The seriousness of their journey had slowly crept up on her, purging any hope of sleep. Suddenly, their research trip no longer seemed like a whimsical little expedition. And every time the sorceress tried to close her eyes and relax, the image of a girl's torso strung up on a hook would stab into the brittle peace within her mind.

Surrendering the fight, Theila decided to get up to soak in the tub. The small lamp that hung from the ceiling remained unlit as she sat in the dark, searching for comfort in the hot water. There, she mulled over the nightmare that haunted her waking dreams. She had never seen a corpse before. She had seen _bodies_ —cadavers of those who had chosen to donate themselves to Vintrica for the students of Restoration to perform dissections on. But those, with their covered faces and clean skin, had been nothing like what Theila had found in the fishery.

She had seen human parts held illegally in apothecaries, harvested and kept for whatever false remedies they were purported to have. But they had been stripped of any semblance of the bodies they'd been taken from. The sight of them was unsavory, yes, but they had been reduced to mere objects.

And then there was the emissary. Theila lowered her head and splashed her face, keeping her hands over her skin to hold in the heat. He had been a horrible, selfish man. But he had been a life, and she'd taken it when she broke that lock.

 _Welcome to Skellige_ , she thought dryly to herself. Her mind drifted to thoughts of the witcher. Theila wondered how many lives he had ended. Plenty if she had to guess, and not all of them of monsters or beasts. If he knew of the state she was in now, he would surely laugh. He'd sneer that she was weak. Or perhaps that she was a woman.

Theila ground her teeth. She could practically see those derisive, inhuman cat eyes peering down at her, surrounded by his taxidermy. "What's the difference?" his laughing voice jeered in her head.

She couldn't take sitting in silence on her own anymore. Lifting a hand from the steaming water, Theila lit the lamp overhead. A book resting on a stack of towels flew to her, and she opened it to seek the refuge of distraction from its pages. But she only managed to read through a few paragraphs before her restless mind wandered again.

Maybe she was weak. Not because of her sex, but because of the sheltered life she had led. The wives of the poachers had seen no wrong in the actions of their husbands. To them, it was a means of support, not murder. And maybe somewhere, deep down, they knew it was unethical but they had turned a blind eye to it out of necessity.

A Continental lass, they had called her. One that came from a porcelain manor. Well, marble palace—but close enough. Back when Theila had been a training Magus her days at the school consisted of fickle conversations with Brielle such as the argument that, although the climate-controlled greenhouses could grow them, out-of-season produce didn't taste quite as good. She had taken her meals out on the veranda—tucking into a rack of lamb while listening to Pascal recount his days as a dragonling.

Even now she was reclining in a bathtub in a lodge that was nicer than half the homes in Skellige. Turning her head, Theila looked out the darkened window. Earlier that night, the witcher's campfire could have been seen a small distance away. He had refused to stay at the lodge, instead unraveling his bedroll over the cold, rocky ground. Theila couldn't imagine turning down a roof and a bed. She had been certain the witcher's refusal was due to his pride. But perhaps there was another reason.

She wondered how the stars looked from where he lay.

The yearning to change the mundane tone her life had adopted had brought Theila back to Vintrica. She thought earning another Magus title would give her the change she sorely needed. Perhaps that wasn't the only solution.

It was while she pursued those thoughts that Theila, with her head leaned back against the lip of the tub, drifted off. Morning came shortly, and she was awoken by the sound of someone entering the washroom.

Groggily, she lifted her head. She brought her hands out of the water, kept hot by magic, and rubbed her eyes. Suddenly, there was a startled cry.

It made Theila jump as well. She had assumed that it was Niyette who had come in and woken her up. Her eyes snapped up, meeting Julian's shocked ones. Immediately, Theila's arms bunched to her chest.

"Sorry, I-I thought no one was—!" His apology was briskly cut off as he slammed the washroom door behind him. Theila let out the breath she had been holding, sinking up to her neck in water. She turned and gazed at the window. A slice of light peered in from the crack in the curtains, illuminating a beam of light on the washroom floor and announcing the arrival of the day.

The sorceress groaned, pressing a wet hand over her eyes. She lifted herself from the tub, dried herself, and dressed. This day didn't beckon for one of her delicate dresses. She slipped into a thin, airy linen blouse. Over it, she secured a thick cotton vest in which the topmost button was tucked right below her bosom. A leather belt wrapped snug around her waist, affixing tight breeches of identical material. Her usual heels were swapped for short boots with thick rubber soles.

As Theila stepped out into the main room, she found Julian sitting at the large oak table. He looked almost meek and sheepish. All that was missing was the twiddling of his thumbs. At the sound of her steps, he looked up.

"You look different," he noticed quietly.

"Well…" Theila replied slowly, unsure of whether to take his words as a compliment or not. The way he had said it was as though he didn't know himself. "Yes. Today we sail west."

Julian looked down. "People don't sail out there," he said, "and come back."

"We're not exactly your average, run-of-the-mill people, are we?" Theila retorted light-heartedly. She pulled out a chair next to the boy and sat down. "Where's Iní?"

"She went out to talk to the witcher." Julian hesitated, and then added, "Last night she called herself my bride to be."

Theila waited, but he didn't say more. She leaned forward. "Did it bother you?"

"No," Julian replied quickly. "It was just… strange how straightforward she was." He shrugged. "What if I'm not what she expects?"

"Julian," Theila said, reaching out and grasping his shoulder. "I don't think you understand that Iní is beyond a typical woman. She is wiser than you realize. Her eyes see beyond what any human can, and she loves what she sees in you. Be grateful you are nothing like those fishermen. Being able to take up a weapon and hurt a bound creature isn't brave—it's sociopathic." Her hand slipped under the boy's chin, and she lifted his head to meet his eyes. "You're going to make her a very happy bride."

The corner of the boy's lips twitched up at her words. It was the first time Theila had seen him smile, and it fit his face well.

"Promise me you'll stay safe out there," he told her.

"I promise." Theila stood. "And promise _me_ you'll invite me to your wedding. I do love them."

"Even if it's under water?"

Theila chuckled. "I have spells for that."

There was one last stop to make to her room where her cloak waited. It was made of rich, dark oilskin dyed a deep blue. The garment was meant to protect its wearer from light showers. But come the afternoon, Theila would be sailing into the mother of all storms. Thus, the cloak's surface had been fortified further with enchantments to shield it and her from the elements.

Theila donned the cloak, secured the brooch, and left the room. The cloak fluttered out widely behind her. She stopped by Niyette's door and gave it a soft knock. Her mistress answered, dressed like a lord prepared to go hunting underneath her own cloak. "I shall be out in a moment," Niyette said before Theila could get a word in. "There are a few pieces of equipment I must prepare. See to it that the witcher is ready and able to embark without further delay." The door shut.

"Good morning to you too," Theila mumbled turning away. As she passed through the main room, Julian stood and hurried after her. "I'll go down to the docks with you," he offered.

"That's sweet of you," Theila said. "You and Iní may stay at the lodge while we're gone. Just try not to make a mess and… don't touch any of Lady Niyette's things."

"Oh, trust me, I won't," Julian said. They stepped out into the cool air. The sun in the horizon colored the sky with soft pastel colors. Theila took a deep breath, taking in the smell of the sea. It was almost as if yesterday hadn't happened and today would be normal.

They found Iníomara at Undevar's makeshift campsite. She sat atop the witcher's packed bedroll, hands rested delicately over her fluttering yellow sundress. They seemed to be wrapping up a conversation as the two approached. Iníomara stood and turned to face them. Her eyes rose to the face of her love as she said, "I have spoken with the witcher. We have agreed that it is best if I accompany their boat while they sail across the territory of my people." She looked to Theila and continued, "They do not welcome the sight of vessels in their waters for decided reason."

"Iní, this is our journey," Theila said. "Your help is dearly appreciated, but you have a life to begin anew."

"Such a life would have never come to fruition without you," the mermaid replied. "I will swim with you through the waters of the merpeople, but not beyond. My mind is made up."

Julian turned to Undevar. Theila was astonished when the boy so boldly said, "Take care of her, please."

Undevar, however, was not as moved with Julian's loving concern. He uncrossed his legs and stood, looking disdainfully down at the boy he towered over. "Don't give me orders, you half-shat turd," he growled softly. "The mermaid can take care of herself. She's got more between the legs than you."

Fire shot through Theila, but before she could say anything, Iníomara came between the witcher and Julian. "He has seen enough cruelty," the mermaid said, her melodic voice growing stormy. "You grow especially harsh around him—why?"

"Stop talking." The witcher's voice was quiet and dangerous.

Iníomara ignored him. Her stance softened, as did her voice. "You see something in him." There was no question in her tone—she spoke as though voicing observations. "A taunt—a bitter mirage of what might have been."

 _"Enough,"_ Undevar spat, his eyes flashing like lightning. Theila was entranced as she listened to the fearless mermaid.

"It clings to you like a disease," Iníomara noted. "You have loved. And you destroyed it. A trapped soul that, only by your hand, could have been fr—."

"I said _SHUT IT_ , sea wench!" the witcher roared. Above his anger, there even could have been fear. His hands flew up, aiming for the mermaid's neck. There was no trace of restraint. He moved too fast for Theila to react.

She moved faster. Iníomara's arm whipped down in a wide arc. Theila couldn't catch what she did. The witcher's head jerked to the side. All was silent in the second-long pause that followed. During that frozen eternity, Theila saw bright crimson drawn in four lines across Undevar's cheek, the last running close to his lips. Then, blood seeped out and time resumed.

The witcher exhaled. His breath was grating. Iníomara stood her ground, her hand relaxing as her claws shrank away. Julian grabbed her wrist. It was quiet.

Then, Iníomara declared, "May those pale scars forever serve as a reminder."

The red was coloring his skin, crowding his beard. Despite all that she had witnessed, Theila stepped forward, raising a hand in preparation to stem the bleeding. Undevar slapped her hand away, snapping, "Fuck off!" He turned away, taking up his packed belongings, and strode towards the docks.

The residual tension that was left behind clung to Theila's skin. Turning to Julian, she said, "Head back to the lodge and see if Lady Niyette needs help with the equipment." The boy glanced at Iníomara and walked back, his steps hurried.

Once they were alone, the sorceress asked, "What did you mean? What did you see in him?" Something beyond curiosity had seized her. She had a burning desire to know.

Iníomara regarded Theila, her cerulean, sea glass eyes piercing through the sorceress's own. Then the mermaid lowered her eyes and gently waved a hand towards Theila's hip. "The shell charm," she said, "was given to him by her."

An old lover, Theila surmised. It twisted her stomach to think how that horrible, cruel witcher had toyed with the girl's heart. "What did he do to her?"

"He is as much a victim as she was—both because of the same monster," was the only answer. Iníomara turned and headed for the water.

The smallest things—the little details no one would have paid any attention to. Sometimes they were important.

* * *

"I always thought," Kozin admitted, "that those scars came from a fight—that the wyvern or whatever it'd been had gotten a lucky break."

"He never told you?"

"He said he'd gotten them from an important lesson. I figured that lesson was get out of the way faster."

Theila quietly pondered. "I know it wasn't shame that kept him from telling the story," she said. "Once he told me he was glad those cuts were where he could see them every day. Maybe it was something he wanted to keep for himself, that sentimental old fool."

* * *

They gathered at the dock just as the sun had broken free from the horizon. There, Theila found what the witcher had gathered in preparation for the journey. The boat, she expected, though it was a vessel that seemed about 30 feet in length from bow to stern—more than enough room for their small party.

The shark carcass, she did not expect.

It was a putrid thing—covered in cuts that exposed the pinkish-red flesh underneath. It was of a species Theila had never seen before, and it gave her goose bumps to know that such a sea creature existed. It was an enormous beast—easily spanning the length of the boat. The eyes on either side of its wide head were milky white, and bits of its jagged teeth peeked from its bloody, partially open mouth. It had been placed at the back of the boat, curled to conserve space. Next to the shark, giving it a wide berth, were the sorceresses' equipment wrapped tight in tarred canvas and fastened by hemp rope.

"Theila." Niyette's curt voice snagged her attention. "Staring at the boat won't take you to the spire." She realized that both her mistress and Undevar were already onboard. Quickly, she hurried down the short pier and stepped into the boat. Theila edged towards the bow with Niyette where the smell of rotting shark was just a bit weaker.

Undevar pulled the loop of rope tethering the boat to the pier. As he did, Iníomara turned back to Julian and promised that she would return by sundown. He kissed her, and Theila lowered her eyes. Even young, their love was something to be envied. The mermaid slipped free from her dress and dove from the pier. She emerged, and Theila caught the shimmer of gold beneath her.

"I will be close by," she told them. "If you need me to surface, then have the witcher signal me." With that, she dipped below the water.

They were ready to go, but Theila noticed that Undevar had not lowered the sails. Instead, he plopped down on the seat by the shark, causing the boat to rock. "Wind's not going to move this gailey with this fat arse on it." He gave the carcass a kick. "Which means you lasses will." He leaned back and continued, "Sure there's a spell somewhere in your book that'll do the trick." The cuts on his face had stopped bleeding, though the dark red smears of where he had carelessly wiped the blood still tinged his skin.

"You'll start, Theila," Niyette said, also taking a seat at the bow. "And I shall take over when you tire." Theila pursed her lips, but did not argue. She casted an enchantment that set the boat moving. Ripples trailed after the stern as they moved away from the dock. As more power was fed into the spell, the boat began picking up speed. The wind picked up and whipped her hair. Her cloak fluttered against her body.

Ard Skellig continued to shrink into the distance until, finally, it disappeared. All that surrounded them was the deep blue expanse of ocean. Water flew up from the sides of the boat, pushed aside by the bow. Theila's face felt numb from the wind and sea mist that continually blasted her.

From the bow, Undevar checked his compass once more. He gave Theila brisk instructions. "More to the left." "Steer us a bit to the right." He would say nothing more, spending the silence staring out while his free hand stilled the waving furs around his neck.

After a while, Niyette took over. Instead of taking her seat at the bow, Theila sat by the tarp-wrapped equipment. The wind, mercifully, blew the stench of the dead shark behind them. With cold fingers, she inspected the rope that held the bundled gadgetry together. While her hands made a show of examining the ropes, the sorceress's eyes flickered up to the silent witcher. He sat with one arm perched along the edge of the boat, one foot planted atop the shark's head.

Collision with small waves sent up tall walls of ocean spray. Some of it fell into the boat, hitting its occupants. The cuts on the witcher's face likely hadn't closed yet, though he showed no sign of pain as he stubbornly kept his face turned outwards.

He glanced down at his compass, and Theila quickly lowered her eyes.

"Been fiddling that rope for awful long," she heard him say above the hiss of the water. "Trying to pick the fibers apart?"

Theila withdrew her hands and sat back. Undevar was still looking at the compass. "Are we in mermaid waters yet?"

"Merpeople. They've menfolk as well," the witcher grunted. "And aye, we crossed what could be considered their border a while ago." He shut the lid of the compass with a quick snap, finally looking up at Theila. "This boat's been watched ever since."

Her skin crawled. She gave the water a quick glance and scooted away from the edge of the boat. Deep water always creeped her out—just the thought of unseen things lurking in the dark blue underneath them made her palms sweat. "Have you seen them?"

"Nay, but that don't mean they're not there," Undevar replied. He leaned back, sticking an elbow out over the edge. "We're not going to see the likes of them. Not when they've got hired muscle to do the dirty work for them." Suddenly, he sat forward, taking his foot from the shark's head and slamming it down. "Stop the boat!" he barked at Niyette. "As quick as you can without fucking us over!"

Theila grabbed the edge of the boat as she was thrown forward. But the wood underneath her fingers was slick and her grip broke as soon as her arms locked. She fell onto the floor of the boat with a heavy thud. A grating noise made her look up. She saw the tarpaulin-covered machinery sliding towards her. But before it reached her, it stopped. With a terse grunt, Undevar yanked it back.

Niyette let out a heavy breath. She turned as the two behind her hauled themselves to their feet. "What is the meaning of—?"

Two loud splashes cut off her words. The dark-haired sorceress whirled, and Theila saw past her. Two spears had been thrust up from the water just a few feet ahead of their bow. Their jagged points looked as though they could have been made from teeth—the largest teeth Theila had ever seen. Had they still been moving, those spear points would have been deep in the belly of their boat.

Theila whirled to face the witcher. "What was that?" she demanded frantically. By contrast, Undevar had taken his seat back up, leisurely leaning his arm on the edge.

"Skelligers aren't afraid of much," he stated calmly. "But one thing that makes them lock their doors and shut their windows—makes them hesitate—is what might come out of the water. The vodyanoi." Calmly, he took the crossbow from his back. The way he loaded it with a bolt reminded Theila of how the old men sitting on park benches back in Lan Exeter would load their smoking pipes—without a care in the world.

Suddenly, he spat. "Och! Dumb wench! Can't reason with them once their sights are set. Got skulls thicker than an islander's."

"What?"

"Iníomara," Undevar clarified, "is trying to call off our welcoming party."

"Witcher, stop dodging my question and tell me what—!"

The water out of the corner of her eye came up in an explosion of waves and foam. Something green emerged, shooting out straight towards the boat. Through the blur, Theila saw a face. No, rather a mask—gleaming brown and artificial with grills at the mouth and round, glass-like eyes. Something extended towards her… arms?

Then a faster streak shot out, a golden one. It collided with the green masked creature, forcing it back down into the water. It happened so quickly that by the time Theila could react, all she could do was lift her arms to shield herself from the splash that the two left in their wake.

A spear shot through the basin of the boat right by to her foot. Startled, Theila stumbled and caught herself on the edge. There came a deep rattling next to her. She felt the vibrations as a hand, webbed and clawed, latched onto the edge. Then another. A creature emerged, inches from the sorceress.

It looked reptilian with green skin gleaming in the sunlight. Its body was adorned with bands of slick hide and stringy kelp. Whatever face the creature had underneath was covered in some sort of breathing mask. Theila froze, watching the thing rise from the other side of the boat. It looked right at her.

She heard the sharp crack of a loosened spring. The creature jerked back, falling into the water.

"Our arse has a new hole," Undevar said. She looked back. The witcher nodded down at the puncture in the hull where the spear had gone through. "Best fix it up if you don't want to swim the rest of the way."

Already, inches of water had leaked into the boat. Theila hurriedly mended the hole. With a push, the water sloshed out of the basin. Niyette casted a shield that coated the boat like a skin. Theila could feel the thumps as the underwater warriors continued to stab and claw at the underbelly.

"Why are we still here?" Niyette hissed. "We need to outrun them."

"Outrun them?" Undevar repeated. "Now that's a good one." Another reptilian warrior sprang up on his side. Undevar immediately had its head between his hands. He slammed it down on the edge of the boat and finished the dazed warrior off with a sharp twist of the neck. It dropped heavily into the water.

"Witcher!" Iníomara had emerged from the water. "I have fended them off as best I can, but still more come! There is only one thing you must do!"

"It's still too early!" Undevar argued.

How Theila wished she were more in the loop.

"You have to!"

Undevar paused to shoot a bolt into another reptilian warrior that had tried climbing aboard. "Then you leave!" he snapped, turning back to the mermaid. "You promised that damned runt you'd go back to him. I'm not doing shite until you go!"

The lull that followed wasn't even a second long, and yet Theila swore she saw something in the gaze they shared. Then, Iníomara disappeared under the water.

"Come on, then!" Undevar shouted. He stooped down to the dead shark, digging his fingers into the thing's gills. To Theila's amazement, he lifted the carcass's entire upper body. "Help me dump this bitch overboard!"

Theila how no idea why or how, but she rushed to help. She gripped the narrowest part of the tail right before it fanned out into the caudal fin. It was so thick that, even with both her hands, she couldn't cover its circumference. Theila pulled at it, but the thing was reluctant to leave the floor.

The boat rocked as more warriors tried climbing on. There was a sharp crack. A jagged bolt of lightning left Niyette's fingertips. It zipped from one reptilian creature to another, setting off a chain reaction of exploding bodies. Theila ducked her face away as the spray hit her. This time, it was warm.

Undevar hauled the carcass, but it only scooted an inch across the floor. Exasperated, Theila let go of the tail. "Stand back!" she told him. Undevar dropped the shark. With a loud boom, the carcass was catapulted from the boat. It hit the water, sending up a massive wave that teetered the vessel. It sank under, becoming a dark blot that grew until the carcass resurfaced with its pale belly up.

"Now what was that for?" Theila demanded.

Undevar turned back to her. "Only way to scare off fish is to give 'em a bigger fish."

Theila blinked. "That?" She thrust a finger at it. "I think it's pretty obvious to them that it's dead!" At a realization, she paled. "Unless you mean—."

"Niyette!" Undevar bellowed towards the front of the boat. "When I say, get this boat moving again! Fast! Don't worry about fucking us over this time!"

Niyette glared back. "I can't believe I'm _still_ trusting your judgment," she hissed.

They were still sitting ducks. Theila fought to keep the shield on their boat up as their attackers continued to claw and stab at it. The ones that climbed onto the boat were blasted back or shot, but there were always more. Hissing and rattling filled Theila's ears as she pushed another two away with a powerful boom. The hole was immediately filled. They were starting to form walls around her.

Then, suddenly, the sun returned. The boat rocked heavily as the creatures clinging to its side pushed away and vanished into the water. Their dark forms formed a ring around them that quickly dissipated as they fled.

Theila heard an eerie clinking. She looked and realized that the medallion around Undevar's neck was thrumming against a stud in his armor.

"Niyette, _go!"_ His eyes flashed to Theila. "Lass, hold onto something."

Her arms wound around the mast just in time. The boat shot forward. Theila's shoulders were wrenched as she clung on. The bow bounced high off of the resistant water. It landed, throwing walls of sea spray up on either side.

She saw the shark carcass floating in the water, growing further and further away from them. Then, Theila felt the air shake—pounding pulses that tessellated. It grew and grew until the teeth in her head were practically rattling. The pounding became real thuds that hurt her eardrums.

And then she heard it— _actually_ heard it. A deep, reverberating bellow that resonated from the very sea itself.

The shark rose as the water underneath it bulbed up. Then the bubble popped, and something massive emerged from it. The shark disappeared inside enormous jaws. Awe seized Theila, forcing her to choke out her next breath as she tilted her head back to gaze at the single eye above her. It was flat, glassy, and big enough to hold a full-grown adult in its diameter. The eye tilted down to look at her.

Water pummeled her in torrents. Theila ducked her face down, listening to the pounding of water and the bellow of the sea monster that now shook the air freely. As soon as the water thinned, she looked up again.

It was a massive wall of flesh. The wide slits of gills flared in the open air before pulling shut. Water streamed in thick cords from between jagged, stained teeth. As the leviathan closed its jaws, the shark's tail jutted out from between the spiny fangs.

Less than a minute ago, they had been right next to that shark—floating on the surface with those wide, gaping jaws coming up from the deep below them. Theila didn't want to be on the ocean anymore.

The monster sank quickly back below, taking the bait with it. Theila took an arm from the mast, peering out into the turbulent water where the beast had breached. She dared to breath again.

Suddenly the water right behind them erupted. A huge wave gave their boat an abrupt shove. Losing her grip around the mast, Theila fell back onto the floor. She looked up and screamed. A fanged, gaping mouth was coming down straight for them. It was so wide Theila could clearly make out the levathian's ribbed inner throat.

In that second, so many thoughts flashed through her. That yawning mouth would come down and swallow them like it did the shark. How quickly would death come? She would never see Brielle, Pascal, or Julian again. They would never know what happened.

Heavy steps thudded next to her. Niyette rushed to the stern. She shouted something and threw an arm out. A purple ring appeared in front of her and exploded outwards like a shockwave. The boom cracked in Theila's ears, and a fierce wind slapped her face.

The force struck the leviathan and rammed it back. It bellowed its pulsating call as it sank back into the water. But its shape did not fade, and soon the sea behind them rose and parted to reveal the upper half of the monster's head as it pursued them.

"Fortify the boat!" Niyette snapped. Theila heard the fatigue in her voice. "Make sure it doesn't fall apart on us!"

Shakily, the sorceress rose back up to her feet. As she did, so did the witcher. She cast a spell that webbed across the boat and hardened into a clear shell. Suddenly the boat lurched forward, accelerating rapidly. It threw both her and Undevar off balance. They toppled backwards, her atop him.

Had they been in a more tempered situation, not fleeing for their lives from a giant sea monster, Theila might've found it embarrassing. But at the moment, she was too preoccupied with the enormous, serpent-like head and spikey dorsal fin cutting through the water behind them.

She pushed herself up with her arms. The wind threw her hair into her face. Between the whipping locks, Theila caught glimpses of the monster.

There came a loud voice from underneath her. "Bah! I'm not a cushion!" Undevar grabbed Theila by her arms and shoved her off. He sat up. "Slow us down!"

Niyette looked at him as though she had half a mind to toss him out to the leviathan. "Are you mad?" she yelled back.

"Do it, witch!" The witcher sounded furious and genuinely nervous. "Else you'll kill us all!"

Theila felt the boat slow. The walls of water it whipped up began to shrink. "No, no!" she cried. "What are you doing? Don't listen to him!" The monster would be on them any second now.

Undevar rose and hurried to the very edge of the stern. Perching a foot atop it, he bellowed, "Fuck off, you oversized carp! You've had your scran! Now take that ugly gob of yours back into the deep where I don't have to see it!"

Had he slowed the boat just so he could shout at it? The witcher had lost his mind, and now they were going to die because of this lunatic. Theila was in the midst of making peace with her gods when something incredible happened.

She saw the monster's head make a sharp turn away from their boat. As it did, it sank under the water. The dorsal fin followed, and soon the water stilled as the leviathan disappeared entirely. Theila paused, wondering whether the witcher's shouting really had scared the thing off.

Something had frightened it, but it hadn't been the witcher. Theila looked up as soft fog crept in from her peripheral vision. Her eyes darted around as the gray mist slowly consumed the sun, and then she glanced over her shoulder.

The waters beyond the boat were hidden completely. The boat drifted towards a wall of fog that touched the still ocean and seemed to reach the sky. There was no wind, no waves. Tendrils of fog crept across the water towards their boat like another sea creature about to pull them in.

The boat rocked gently as Undevar took his foot off from the stern and backed away towards the mast. Instead of sitting at the bench that lined the edges of the boat, he sat on the floor at the center. "Niyette, get away from the bow," he said, his voice becoming uncharacteristically soft. "Keep to the middle. Move the boat, but slowly. Nothing more than a drift. This is where the real danger begins."

* * *

 _There's a red dawn over the land_

 _Fate's dealing its hand_

 _Time's ticking to leave while you still can_

 _Calm before the storm_

 _Pride before the fall_

 _Goodbye to it all_

 _Goodbye, my friends_

"Beginning of the End"—All Good Things


	60. Chapter 60 - Dreams in the Mist

_**AN: Classes have started back up, so now we will return to our regular schedule of updating once every blue moon.**_

 _ **Seriously though, thanks for sticking around.**_

* * *

She was well aware of what a perilous place Sansira's Spire was. It was uninhabitable for any life because of the ceaseless storms. There were many places like it—Velen, for example. Though small, stubborn towns of men dotted those bleak marshlands, many of those unaware of its hostile, necrophage-filled environment had met their ends making the mistake of trekking through its gray mud. There was even a forest, Theila had heard, on Ard Skellig that was so feared that even the hardiest of loggers and hunters dared not infiltrate its trees.

She didn't like the unknown. Everything had explanations. The mysterious phenomena of the world always had palpable causes. It was the duty of humanity to find them out. That was the very basis of why they were headed to the spire in the first place.

But Theila had never known anything like the fog they were headed into now. As the bow pushed effortlessly through the thick misty wall, she felt a chill. The air was no colder than it had been before, but still a shiver ran through her. Theila's heart was still hammering from the run-in with the sea monster they so narrowly escaped. She couldn't believe that, against all odds, they had not ended up in the beast's belly. The sorceress had seen the way the monster had abandoned the chase—disappearing so quickly just as the frightened vodyanoi had.

"Sit," Undevar suddenly ordered, his eyes flickering up to the two sorceresses. "Don't want the risk of either of you teetering the boat. Or stumbling too close to the edge."

Theila glanced out at the water. Within the prison of mist, she could only see around three feet in all directions. The sea was absolutely still aside from the soft ripples their boat made. She sat by the mast, and Niyette lowered herself next to her. "Why? What's in the water?"

"No life," Undevar answered. "Iníomara says these waters hold no fish. The birds don't fly here." He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't know how far the fog stretches. While we are here, you might start to… imagine things." He paused, and added, "Keep your thoughts comforting. And _never_ go near the edge."

Theila and Niyette glanced at each other, and then back at the witcher. He was still, his breathing settling into an exceedingly slow tempo. Theila bunched her cloak around herself. Her eyes drifted out to the fog and the small circumference she could barely see around them.

She thought she could see shapes in the mist—silhouettes of people standing just beyond the point of visibility. Theila would catch them briefly. She would make out the ominous forms of heads and shoulders before the boat would carry her on. It was the trickery of what little light was here, she told herself. The shifting of the mist and her mind's habit of trying to discern familiar shapes in them.

Theila looked back at her mistress. Niyette, too, was watching the fog. "I can control the boat," she offered.

"I think it's better if I handle this," Niyette replied softly, her eyes still focused on something in the distance. "Besides, it's far more manageable than pushing back a 100-ton monster."

"This place is unbearable." Theila's voice had dropped down to a whisper. She didn't want to look back out and see the shapes of the people that shouldn't be there.

"As the witcher instructed, try not to worry," Niyette replied. "Busy your mind. Recite incantations, potion recipes. Invent stories."

Theila took a steady breath and let her eyes fall on the witcher. His eyes were still closed, and he had not moved since last speaking to them. For a moment, she wondered if maybe he had managed to fall asleep in that position. If only she had that uncanny ability. Though in an unsettling place like this, Theila suspected only nightmares would accompany her rest.

 _Keep your thoughts comforting_. She returned to Vintrica in her mind. Warm afternoons were perfect for sitting out on that veranda. Pascal would join her at the glass table there, reclining lazily in his chair in his human form. Sometimes he would go on tirades about the sins of cooking meat, and Theila would smile silently to herself. Other times, he regaled her with the tales of wrestling with his littermates in his nest.

One time, a scuffle with his sister had gotten so heated that they had tumbled out from their mountainside cave. His sister had managed to spread her wings and take her first flight. Pascal, on the other hand, continued to plummet until his mother caught him in a quick swoop. She brought him back to the cave where she had given him and his sister sharp nips for their rowdy behavior. Theila remembered how she so dearly wanted to witness something like that, but knew better than to get near a mother dragon's den and her young.

She recalled a rumor about the red dragon and why he truly remained at Vintrica. When questioned, Pascal always gave the answer that he enjoyed the exchanging of knowledge between him and the school. There was much that he knew that the residents of Vintrica did not, and vice versa.

Though the word passed among the ears of certain women that the dragon had become attached to the school because of one person in particular. There was a sorceress somewhere within the ivory walls that did not mind the nightly company of a man with red skin and reptilian eyes. Brielle had pointed out the possibility that it was someone in the Council of Magi, as most students of the school came and went.

Of course it was all speculation, and none of it was based on any solid evidence. Pascal could very well be telling the truth and be nothing more than a creature attracted to a hub of wisdom. Or that attraction could be for one woman. But gossip was gossip, and Theila and the others loved nothing more than entertaining rumors more fiery than dragon flames.

Hmm… the Council of Magi. Theila closed her eyes, shutting out the fog, and mentally sorted through each council member to assess their likelihood of being a dragon's lover. Both she and Brielle had joined the Council long after Pascal had come to Vintrica and this alleged romance began.

Then there was Niyette, though Theila could hardly imagine it. Eleanor was already in a steady relationship with a sorcerer. Rosanna wasn't exactly interested in men, human or not. And then there was—.

Theila's train of thought was abruptly interrupted at the sound of knocking. It was a sound she had heard hundreds of times, but hearing it now chilled her to the core. It was coming from below. Something was underneath the boat, knocking on it as though it were a door.

Her eyes snapped immediately to the witcher, desperate for an answer. She opened her mouth, but fear stifled her words. There was another pair of knocks. This time, the vibrations felt as though they were coming from right underneath her.

"Ignore it," Undevar said, his eyes still closed.

Theila looked to her right. Dread festered in her heart when she saw the concern on her mistress's face. Niyette glared at the witcher. Three more knocks—the rapid, even tempo of someone asking to come in.

"Witcher." Niyette's voice was a thin hiss. "What is in the water?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit." Very rarely did Theila ever hear swears from her mistress's lips. " _Nothing_ does not make that sound. I'll repeat myself again—what is down there?" Theila flinched when she felt the boat shake. The knocking had turned to pounding. Angry fists beat from below them. "Witcher!"

"I don't know!" Undevar snapped, his eyes flying open. All was quiet. Theila looked down. The pounding had stopped. "All I know," the witcher continued, his voice deathly soft, "is that you do not go near the water. No matter what—no matter what you hear. No matter what you see. You—." His eyes darted sharply to the side as though something had snagged his attention. Theila looked out towards where he stared. But all she saw was the shifting fog.

"Theila."

She looked quickly to the bow where her voice had come from. There was no bow at all, and the fog quickly parted to reveal a vanity against the wall of a dimly lit room. The air was quickly filled with the sickly sweet smell of perfume so thick it made her light-headed. As the boat drifted, she was brought towards the vanity and into a reality so convincing that she did not question it.

Closer and closer, Theila was carried to the vanity until she stopped right in front of it. By that time, her chin was only an inch or two above its tabletop. But the child could see her reflection in the mirror, and that's what mattered.

Always, when confronted with the image of her face, she lifted a hand and gently stroked the dark birthmark that splotched over her right cheek and jaw. It was a deep, wine-colored red, and so her mother and others had called it a port-stain mark. Many, upon seeing it, had first thought it was a scar from a burn wound. But though Theila had sustained no injuries getting it, the birthmark was just as marring. She didn't understand why her face looked like this, and everyone else's didn't. It just wasn't fair.

"Theila," her mother called out again as she entered the room. The little girl turned away from the mirror. Seeing her daughter at the vanity, a sad, knowing look crossed the woman's face. She took a few steps into the room and crouched down, holding her arms out. Theila quickly hurried into her embrace.

"Do you have to work now?" she whispered quietly into her mother's hair. She smelled so strongly of perfume.

"Yes," the young woman replied.

"I don't want to go back to the orphanage." Her small hands bunched her mother's clothes as she thought of the bullying she would have to endure again. Blotch-faced Theila, they called her. Daughter of a whore. The eldest boys jeered about how they planned to go to the brothel and pay her mother a visit soon.

"I have good news, Theila," her mother said, pulling her head back to look the little girl in the eyes. "You don't have to go back there. I've spoken with some people. They can take you in—give you a roof, meals and everything you could need." She gave Theila's round cheek a soft pinch. "Does that sound good? Did Mama do good this time?"

The little girl still looked unhappy. "Will you come too?"

She was answered with a sad smile. "I have to work." Her mother leaned in closer. "But I promise I will visit you every chance I get. I—." She suddenly broke off and whipped her head to the side to sneeze, and then again. Theila grew worried, wondering if her mother was becoming ill. As the woman straightened up, Theila crowded her neck and hugged her.

"Mama," she whispered. "Are you using the white powder again? It makes you sick."

She felt a hand gently stroke her hair. "I'm not sick," her mother reassured. "It helps with work."

"Are you tired?" Theila asked. "I wish I was as pretty as you. Then I could help you work."

"No, Theila." Her mother pulled away and held the girl's face tenderly between her hands. "Don't say that, my darling. Everything Mama does is so that you don't have to be like me. I have prayed to Melitele so, so many times that you will have a wonderful, happy life." A woman called from outside the room, and Theila's mother gave a brief glance over her shoulder before turning back to the girl. She rose, her hand sliding along the child's arm until she held Theila's tiny hand in hers. "Come, Theila," she said. "I'll walk you there and we can see your new home together."

The place that Theila would spend the next few years of her life was far—nearly on the opposite side of Hengfors from the Wicked Fairy. She was given to a couple that was far older than her mother. The man, upon meeting her, had looked at Theila with guarded interest while his wife seemed to hate her right away.

Quentin and Reba Candel were never kind to the child, and Theila—never knowing the truth—wondered why they had agreed to raise her in the first place. While they did feed her and give her a thin bedroll to sleep on, they set about almost immediately putting the girl to work doing the undesirable chores. Things that hadn't been cleaned in a long time needed to be scrubbed spotless. The couple's sole livestock—a skinny gilt—needed to be fattened to have her first piglets. Theila heard through the low-spoken words of the neighbors that the Candels once had a son who ran from home at the first opportunity. She could see why.

At first, Reba was the worse out of the two. Never did she speak a kind word to the little girl, and seemed to revel in slandering the child and her mother. She called her mother a harpy, and Theila a product of sin. She asked Theila if the child knew who her father was. Foolishly, the girl answered with the truth.

"Don't surprise me, not a bit!" Reba sneered. "Reckon he was a customer who hightailed it down the road soon as he'd his fill with that harlot!"

Angrily, Theila demanded what Reba had meant by that.

The woman shoved a finger at the girl. "Don't you know, you dumb little wench? Your ma's a whore who lets men plough her body for coin!"

What Reba was telling her was too ugly to be true, and all Theila could do was frantically shake her head. This put a cruel smile on the woman's face and she continued, "Why do you think she don't come home at night? Why she don't take care of you herself?"

"Because—!"

"Because she'd rather fuck swine and fill'er brain with fisstech than deal with you!" Reba interrupted, leaning down to bring her face inches from Theila's. Defiantly, the girl stared back though her eyes glittered with furious tears. One was squeezed out from the corner of her eye and trailed down her face. It passed over her birthmark. The sight of it fueled the cruel woman's flame.

"But you don't have to worry about that," Reba continued. "You look nothing like your mother, and only a depraved, desperate man would ever consider touching you with that ugly blotch plastered over your mug."

It was an easy way to get to her, and everyone Theila had known always had something nasty to say about it. For the first time, she fought back. She snapped into Reba's face that her birthmark wasn't ugly. Her mother had told her there was nothing wrong with it. Theila was so furious, she couldn't stop the words or the tears from spilling out as she continued to shriek. She told Reba that the woman was a horrible old hag with a soul as ugly as her leathery face.

Theila was cut off, suddenly, when Reba raised her hand against her—the first time she had struck the child. And it was not the last.

As if something had awoken, the home Theila was trapped in took an even darker turn. Reba had breached a new frontier, and she wasn't turning back. The beatings became regular, even unprovoked. Theila wished she had never spoken out.

She would try to hide the bruises when her mother visited. She'd worked so hard to get Theila here, and the child didn't want to ruin it all. Once, her mother had spotted a dark shape and pulled the collar back to find the old, greenish bruise. Theila hastily tried to explain that, when bringing the pig in during a thunderstorm, a bolt of lightning had startled it and caused it to kick her.

Theila began to notice, with each visit, how much progressively worse her mother was becoming. Her wide, pretty eyes had become sunken, and her cheekbones were jutting further and further out. She expressed her worries, and her mother brushed them away and told her not worry.

"Mama is praying," she said to Theila during one of their visits, "every night that Melitele will send an angel to take you away to the life I promised you. She's the only one who can do it now."

It was two days later when Theila heard the news. A doctor had been called to the Wicked Fairy, but the woman was pronounced dead on the spot. Fisstech overdose. She was buried in the local cemetery with a small stone that had her name and a date. A small bouquet of handpicked flowers was left there by a little girl that never had the chance to say goodbye.

Melitele's angel had taken her mother away instead.

Things began to slowly change after that. Quentin Candel, who in the past had never once bothered with Theila or stilled his wife's abusive hand, began to show interest in the child. He would talk to her, gently and kindly. He called her pretty. It made Theila feel strange.

She flinched when he stroked her hair. Her mother would do that, but Quentin's hand felt different. It made Theila nervous, but she reminded herself to behave. If not, Reba's hand would quickly remind her.

One day, Theila stepped out to the laundry line with the basket against her hip. It was almost sundown, and the clean laundry needed to be taken in. But as she neared the lines, the sight of him standing with his back to her made Theila stop.

Quentin had something in his hand, and when he heard Theila, he turned. She recognized the thing he was holding—a pair of her knickers.

"This yours?" His voice was soft, almost intimate.

"Yessir." She watched him rub the cloth between his fingers. It made her uncomfortable, and she didn't know why.

"Here you go then." He held them out, waiting expectantly for the girl to come near. Theila stepped slowly towards him. His hand was still extended, the white knickers draped over it. She took it and crumpled it into a ball in her fist to hide it from him. His hand dropped to his side.

Quentin jerked his head towards the laundry line. "Take 'em down," he said, and walked past her.

Theila began to grow scared. She was scared of her own home. Suddenly, Reba was no longer the worst. Theila stopped meeting Quentin's eyes because there was now something in them she didn't want to see. She didn't want to be as pretty as he said she was. She wanted to cut off the hair he stroked. She wanted to be with her mother again.

And then Melitele's angel came.

He was an old man more gnarled than the cane he hobbled with, and wispier than the curtains of a willow. Theila hardly noticed him as he slowly came up. She was too busy tugging on the pig's lead, though the creature had now become considerably heavier with a bellyful of piglets and had not lost an ounce of its stubbornness.

Her foot landed in something that was soft and squelched. Theila looked down and grumbled in dismay at her soiled shoe. By that time, the old man had stopped at the fence next to her. The little girl looked up and, upon finally noticing him, jumped and let go of the lead. The content pig trudged back to its favorite mud spot.

"I have been looking for you," he told her in a brittle voice.

At first, Theila was scared, but then curiosity overtook her. She looked the old man over and said, "You're a mage!"

"Ah," the old man rumbled, and Theila began to like him. "How did you know that? Was it this?" With his staff, he gave his wrinkly hat a tap. "Or perhaps this?" He wiggled his long, bushy eyebrows, which elicited a giggle from the child.

"You look like one!" Theila answered.

"Do I now? Well, hmmm… let's see…" With the tip of his twisted staff, the old man scratched his temple. Theila saw his other hand twirl, and suddenly a levitating hand mirror appeared in front of him. The girl gasped. "Oh dear," the old man muttered, lifting his head and observing the reflection. "Looks like a few nose hairs need trimming."

Theila, by this time, had leaned with both arms on the fence to watch. "Is that real?" she asked, reaching for the hand mirror.

"Indeed it is," he answered, taking the mirror out of the air. In his hand, it became normal. The old man handed it to the girl. "A gift for you."

Theila ran a hand over the braided silver rim of the mirror, touching the dark blue gem at the very top. She lifted it, and suddenly caught her own reflection. She saw the port stain discoloring her skin and tilted the mirror to make her face disappear. Solemnly, she held it back out to the mage. "Thank you. I don't want it."

The old man's brow furrowed, but he took the mirror without question. Instead, he asked, "What is your name, child?"

"Theila."

"A strong name," the mage remarked. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. "Very well. May I speak to your parents, Theila?"

The little girl hesitated. Then, in a whisper, she said, "They're not my parents."

"Your guardians, then?"

She didn't know what that meant, but she assumed he was looking for the people who took care of her—the Candels. The old man sat down to speak with the couple in private, but Theila was right outside the door to listen.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this," the old mage was saying. "But that little girl has the makings of an adept."

"An…?" Reba said. "What is that, like a…?"

"A magic user," the mage clarified. "Such as yours truly."

There was a pause. "So what then?" This time it was Quentin. "What are you here for?"

"Is it not obvious? If she is connected to the Chaos, then she must be schooled on how to control it. Or else the power will overwhelm her mind and send her into madness."

"That little wench aren't going to no school!" Reba snapped. "Wouldn't be able to learn a single thing if she did! She's got more use staying here, doing the kind of things someone like her ought to do."

"I…" It was the mage's turn to sound flustered. Quickly, the foundation returned to his voice as he continued, "I can see what kind of environment this child was raised in. I think it would be in _her_ best interest if she came with me."

"You take that child from this home and we'll call it kidnapping to the town guard!" Quentin retorted. "Her whore mother handed us custody, and when she died that right became ours and ours alone. You're not taking her—that's it. See yourself out."

"Very well." Theila heard the heaving thunking of the old man's staff accompanying his steps. He came out of the room and passed her. Desperately, Theila followed after him. She pleaded with him to take her anyway—to turn the Candels into beetles so they wouldn't stop him. At the fence, the old mage stopped and turned back to the girl.

"If they are unwilling to give you over, then there is little I can do," he said. "I cannot use magic to achieve that end." He reached into his robes and pulled something out—the silver hand mirror. Handing it to Theila, he said, "I will not abandon you. This is far from over."

"What's your name?"

"Codren, my dear." And with that, he left. A few weeks later, he returned to Hengfors. This time he was accompanied by a tall woman named Gloria Elfriede, who introduced herself as the headmistress to a school of sorcery up in the Dragon Mountains. They sought an audience with the authorities of Hengfors, attempting to overturn the Candels' rights over the child. They laid claims of abuse, though it was unsure of how they were aware of this in the first place. Proof was demanded of the child's magical abilities, but they had none aside from Codren's word—which, of course, meant little to them. Theila was brought before them and asked to cast, but when she was unable to, their appeal was ultimately denied.

"It was deliberate, those snakes!" Codren had growled, thumping his cane irately against the ground as he walked. "What did they expect? Throw a fledgling out of the nest before it's ready, and only a fool expects it to glide off!"

Theila couldn't help but feel that this was her fault. She wondered if the mage was somehow mistaken. She couldn't make mirrors appear out of thin air. Never once had she been able to conduct magic. If she could, she would've used it to save her mother.

Codren and occasionally Gloria would visit her. The old mage gave Theila impromptu lessons despite Gloria saying that magic could not be taught to nonstudents.

One day, Theila was able to make a bright spark shoot out from her fingertips. She jumped, and Codren's wiry eyebrows nearly rose to the top of his forehead. He pointed a shaky, crooked finger and turned to Gloria. "Did you see that? She's connected!"

Gloria immediately killed the joyous moment. "Even then, we cannot take the child away if her household refuses to give her up. Vintrica has a reputation to uphold—we cannot be known for forcing children away from their parents. Or," she added, looking to Theila, "what passes as caretakers." Suddenly, she gave a brisk wave of her hand. "This is fruitless, Codren. You're wasting your time and I have a school to run."

Tearfully, Theila had begged them not to leave her. Whatever Codren wanted to say was quickly hushed by the sorceress. And just as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone. The only thing Theila had left was the silver mirror.

Melitele's angels had deserted her.

That following spring was her 11th. Once again, Theila returned to the routines of her miserable life, silently waiting for the Candels to die of old age or karma. The summer months arrived, bringing with it an unbearable wave of heat.

She knew something was wrong when she felt the warm feeling, as though she had urinated. At first, Theila thought it had been her imagination. But when she went into the washroom for a bath, the feeling became worse. Her knickers dropped to the floor around her ankles, and she was horrified to see that they were soaked in crimson.

She thought she was hurt—badly. There was so much blood. Theila ran to the small cupboard and yanked out a small wash towel. The next few minutes were spent with her sitting on the edge of the tub, covering her mouth so Reba and Quentin wouldn't hear her sobbing while she pressed the towel between her legs. Her stomach hurt and she thought she was dying.

But as frightened as she was, there was a tiny voice in the back of her head telling her not to worry. Another angel was coming to take her back to her mother.

Still, the flow wouldn't stem, and Theila resolved to bleed out while she continued taking her bath. When she stepped out of the tub, red dots appeared on the floor underneath her.

Theila took another wash towel and tucked it between her legs before pulling a new pair of underwear on. She took the soiled ones, along with the first towel, back to her room. Theila didn't want Reba, and more importantly Quentin, to know. She thought about burning the two blood-soaked items, but the fire that had been kindled for supper had already died. The summer night was too warm for another fire and would certainly raise questions.

Instead, the girl crept out when it was dark and went around to the back of the house. With a trowel, she dug a shallow hole and dumped the things in before filling it back up until it was level with the rest of the ground. Then, she returned to the house and retreated into her small, cramped room.

A gravedigger knew better than to dig a shallow grave. The freshly-excavated dirt loosened, and so when returned to the earth, came up over the hole in a mound as though in excess. Over time, the soil would compact down and return to normal. Someone who was experienced with keeping things out of sight below the ground knew this. A young girl did not. The ground where she buried her fears sank down after a few days. Of course, she never knew because someone had already dug it back up by then.

Reba was out at the market that day, so Theila found it safe to sit around in the living room. Quentin had gone out to fix the broken wheelbarrow out by the back of the house.

To that day, Theila had never forgotten the small spark she had been able to create with Codren's help. In the living room, she sat with her hands raised in front of her. She concentrated with all her might, trying to recreate that spark. She hadn't managed to make anything so far, but she was starting to feel that familiar tingling gather in her fingertips.

Suddenly, she heard heavy footsteps and quickly lowered her hands. Theila looked up when Quentin walked in. He had two, dirt-covered things clutched in his hands. Theila felt her heart stop when she recognized the dark maroon stains.

He stood in the doorway—the only doorway—of the living room. Quentin raised the cloth too close to his face, held it there, and then lowered it.

"This yours?"

Theila didn't answer.

Quentin took a step into the room, still blocking the door. Theila rose and backed away. "I've waited a long time for this." His voice was still gentle. "If you're old enough to bleed, you're old enough to have a man in you."

A soft gasp escaped her when she felt her back hit the wall. Quentin took another step towards her. Her wide, terrified eyes darted to the doorframe behind him. "It'll hurt the first time. That's 'cause you're still growing. You'll start liking it soon enough."

Fear, expanded thin in her chest, suddenly burst. "Don't touch me!" Theila shrieked. She took up the only thing she had on her, the hand mirror, and raised it in front of her. "Stay away from me! Stay away!"

"Now don't be like that." He began walking towards her. The cloth dropped from his hand. "Or I'll _make_ it hurt real bad." He was advancing so quickly, Theila's legs nearly buckled. She pushed herself off the wall and ran for the door. Quentin caught her by the arm and pulled her to him.

"Little whore!" he roared. "Plough ya face-down so I won't have to look at that splotched mug of yours!" When Theila began hitting him with the mirror, he knocked it out of her hand. It shattered on the floor. She screamed. "Shut the fuck up! This is what you were made for!" He was dragging her towards the couch.

Theila tried to break out of his grip, but he slapped her so she would fall onto the couch. Her head was still spinning when she felt Quentin's weight crush her.

 _"Help me, Mama! Help me!"_

Her hands flew up and pushed him. At that moment there was a boom of thunder, only it was right there with her. The weight was gone and Theila heard a loud crash. She tried to lift herself up from the couch, but her legs wouldn't work and she slipped onto the floor.

Quentin picked himself up from the floor. Bits of wood dropped from his back. The wall behind him had been cracked from the impact. "Bitch!" he spat. "You think your little tricks are going to help you?"

A flash of light lit the room. Theila looked up. She swore it was her mother there to save her, especially from the way the light seemed to form wings behind her. But then the light disappeared, and Theila realized it was Gloria.

"That is all the evidence we need." She turned back to the girl who had sat up on the floor. "Come, Theila. They won't hurt you anymore. Quentin and Reba Candel will lose custody of you on the basis of physical and sexual abuse. You're safe now. Let's go home." Gloria lifted a hand to her as fog crept in around them. A kind smile adorned the sorceress's face as she said, "Melitele's angel has come to save you. Take my hand, Theila."

The girl wiped her wet face. She was getting up onto her feet when her hand touched something cold on the floor. Looking down, she saw the broken hand mirror.

Wait. Theila hesitated. She had memories of fixing it at Vintrica. It had stayed with her from then on. She already remembered things that didn't make sense—her apprenticeship at Vintrica, making friends with the other young girls, and finally ridding herself of that birthmark. She looked up and squinted. Gloria's form was nearly shrouded in fog now, but Theila could still hear her voice clearly.

"Theila." Her voice sounded patient, inviting. "Let's go. You can see your mother again."

The mention of her mother broke Theila's heart. She reached out for Gloria's hand. The sorceress smiled. Just before their hands met, Theila stopped.

"This isn't real," she said, looking up at Gloria. "This… we were sailing west… we were attacked, weren't we? And then there was this fog—." She broke off as her eyes darted around, seeing the heavy mist as if for the first time. She blinked, and suddenly Gloria was gone. Theila was facing the edge of the boat, her hand almost reaching out above the water.

There was something touching the rim of the boat. A hand, maybe—a thin, emaciated one. But it disappeared as soon as Theila laid eyes on it, and she heard a soft splash.

Someone was crying quietly behind her. Theila turned. Niyette had her head bowed, her hands pressed against her face. Theila reached out and touched her shoulder, but her mistress wouldn't react.

"Sybil," came the weak, muffled plea from behind her hands. "I… I… please, I'm sorry."

Theila didn't know what was causing Niyette to weep over her dead sister. Perhaps it was the same thing that had made her see all those things from a childhood long passed. But the boat had stopped moving. Theila set it slowly adrift again.

The witcher seemed the least affected. He sat with his eyes still closed. Theila hesitated before asking, "How much further?"

He didn't answer her. Then, his eyes suddenly opened. He glanced at Theila and smiled so genuinely it made her heart stutter. The look in his eyes reminded her of the way Julian looked at Iníomara.

"'Fraid I didn't get you anything this Yule," he said. "Not yet."

Theila swallowed. "Undevar?"

He nodded towards the water. "What do you say, Ena? Reckon I should try my luck? One of them is bound to have a pearl." The witcher stood and began moving towards the edge of the boat.

Wildly, Theila shouted out, "No! _No!"_ She pulled him back and paralyzed him. Undevar started panicking, crying out for someone named Ena. He apologized over and over again.

The knocking returned. This time there were multiple fists banging on the wood beneath them. Niyette's sobbing became hysterical. Undevar begged uncontrollably for someone to wait a little longer for him to come back.

Theila was scared. The knocking on their boat became louder and louder, and the sound of her two tormented companions tore at her. She held her head in her hands, not daring to look out into the fog.

"This isn't real," she told herself again. Only this time, it didn't work. The howls and sobs and knocking wouldn't stop. "This isn't real! _This isn't real!"_ She was seized by the frenzied, untamable desire to fling herself into the water to escape it all. Theila rose to her feet.

And then silence. The sorceress opened her eyes. There was sunlight touching the wood beneath her. She looked up and saw the edges of the fog retracting away from them and the boat drifted towards clear water. The sight made her want to cry.

Later on, Theila might have attributed it all to hallucinogens in the air making them act the way they did and see things. Or maybe the stress that they had collected during the journey. It was that, and nothing more—the logical explanation.

But there was no logic in what Theila saw when she turned back to give the heavy mist one last glance. Something was in the water at the very border of the fog, watching them leave. Theila saw the sunken eyes and jutting cheekbones. It was her mother.

It was then the witcher angrily demanded to know why he had been paralyzed. Theila looked away, then back, but the thing in the water was gone.

Niyette groaned as she pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were squeezed shut. "How long were we in there?" she asked. "I don't recall a thing." Theila didn't answer her mistress, not daring to bring up her sister's name.

"I'm still stuck here!" Undevar grunted from where he lay. "For the ploughin' love of Freya, unfreeze me!"

"You were this close to jumping into the water!" Theila snapped. "For—I don't know—for pearls!"

For whatever reason, this shut the witcher right up. The paralysis was lifted, and he stood.

"And you called me by a name. A woman's."

"Ena." His voice was so quiet, she barely heard it.

"Yes." She watched the witcher carefully. He had suddenly become so different from the one back on Ard Skellig. "Who is she?"

Undevar lifted his gaze to the horizon. With a stiff nod, he jerked his head towards the bow. "There's your spire." Theila turned. What lay ahead was ominous—a sky painted completely black. Crooked lines of white cut across it, and the far off rumble of thunder sounded like distant beasts.

At the very center of their view, a thin pinnacle of rock rose into the dark clouds. Lightning gathered close around it, illuminating its high peak so that even from where they were, it could be seen. Each bolt would shoot precariously close to the spire, but never touch it.

Theila's hand shot and grabbed the edge when she felt the boat jump. The waters had grown choppy, skipping over the torrent of small waves that pushed against them. She felt the first drops of rain hitting her face. Quickly, they became heavier and heavier. Theila reached back and pulled the hood over her head.

The closer they came to the spire, the more the water began to control their course. Theila kept her face down, only occasionally daring to lift it and peer at their nearing destination. The thunder became deafening. Each heavenly shriek rattled her core. Despite the ocean tossing them about like the toy a careless giant, Niyette managed to guide them to a spot at the base of the spire that sloped up from the churning water. There, they dragged the vessel onto land. The equipment was unraveled, and the tarp was used to cover the boat while they trekked further up the spire.

Along the way, they stuck small instruments into the rock. Their barbed spikes kept them in place to collected meteorological data. Within a sheltered crevice, Niyette secured a different instrument. She squinted as she peered up, sheltering her face from the rain with a spell.

"Let's head back," she shouted to Theila and Undevar over the rain and thunder. The witcher glared back with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance.

"Back?" he repeated. "We came all this way just to spend not even five minutes at this damned spire?"

"I think you'll agree when I say this journey has depleted us all. Staying at the spire longer than necessary would be incredibly unwise," Niyette retorted. "But when next we return, such a journey will no longer be necessary." She pointed to the device in the crevice, explaining to the witcher that it was a teleportation beacon. With it, they would be able to open a portal directly to the spire.

With no enchanted cloak to keep him sheltered, Undevar grouchily agreed to leave. They climbed back into the boat and steered it into a portal that Theila opened. It took them back to the waters by Kaer Trolde Harbor.

Nightfall had settled. Stars spanned across the dark sky, and the dots of lit windows lined Ard Skellig's uneven coast. They tied their boat to the harbor and stepped on land for what seemed like the first time in eternity.

Before heading back up to their lodge, Niyette turned to Theila and said, "I'll want a thorough report for me to sign off by sundown tomorrow."

When her mistress was out of earshot, Undevar said, "Doesn't ever stop to take a breath, that one."

"Only once she opens a bottle," Theila replied. Surprised, she looked back at the witcher. He had his arms crossed. When he felt Theila's eyes, he looked down to meet them. There he was again, that man she'd seen in the fog.

And then he was gone. Undevar uncrossed his arms and let them drop to his sides. "Go on then," he grunted. "That runt's probably itching to see you safe and sound."

"You too," Theila said.

Undevar scoffed.

* * *

 _I will meet you on the brow of this hill_

 _Just one touch, a little touch_

 _Of the woman who whispered a prayer_

 _Gave me her life as a little child_

 _And I will meet you at the gate_

 _And I don't mind if I've to wait_

' _Cause oh, it takes a little time_

 _To taste the fruit on the vine_

"Meet You at the Gate"—Jayne Trimble


	61. Chapter 61 - Power Play

What she had seen in the fog brought up very, very old memories, and once Theila had been able to recover from the shock of being confronted by it all, she began to grow nostalgic. She sat down and wrote Codren a letter—an old fashioned one. He'd love having mail arrive by courier. Theila told him of their trip to Skellige, and ended the letter with a reminder for him to take the supplemental potions prescribed to him.

She thought about the Candels. It was now far too long to harbor negative feelings, and not worth the effort over two people who had long since turned to dust. Besides, Gloria had given the two of them parting gifts before she had taken Theila away. Reba had not taken Theila's liberation lightly. The affronted woman had followed close after the sorceress's heels, screeching that she was not to take the child away. A pointed finger and muttered spell immediately silenced the screeching, and any other words thereafter. Gloria had looked Quentin in the eye and told him his wife had come down with a very rare disease and, unfortunately, she would have to live out the rest of her years as a mute.

"And you." Gloria seemed to grow more and more monstrous with each word uttered to the man who had attempted to force himself onto a child. "Until the very end of your life, you will be watched. Should you lay your hand on another girl, I shall string you up to a tree by your innards." Wisps of blue light escaped her hand to provide a macabre illustration of her words. "And keep you alive for days! _Months!"_ Her hand closed and crushed the blue wisps.

And then Theila had gone to Vintrica, a place that a child like her could have never imagined. There, her mother's last wish had been fulfilled.

When she was finished with the letter, Theila had Julian take it to a courier. Then she began on her report, detailing her encounters over the water as best she could. It would be the first recorded publication of the sea west of Skellige. _Look at me now, Reba_ , Theila thought with a smile, _making history_.

The instruments planted at the spire relayed their readings to a recorder that wrote out the data in real time. Small, inked nubs attached to a series of rods and cogs swiveled and drew long, zigzagging lines onto a long, unraveling roll of paper. Small shards of crystal embedded into the machines glowed at varying degrees of brightness as they were fed information from their sister crystals several hundred miles away. With every slight change in glow, the crystals would move their respective legs and alter the angle of the nibs at the other end of the machine.

Niyette would often be found standing over the readings as they were etched out, watching every new mark that was produced. She called Theila over and had her look over the lines that had been drawn out over the past few hours. Exasperatingly, Theila unrolled the meters of paper with a sweep over her hand. She walked down the length, tracing data with her eyes. The uneven lines displayed an unmistakable up-down pattern—troughs and peaks that occurred at regular intervals. The storm fluctuated in power. Someone standing in the unrelenting hellstorm wouldn't notice it all, but here in the data it was unmistakable.

"The storm's strength oscillates," Theila noted. "Whatever is powering it is self-sustaining."

"You'd think a curse from the gods would be able to operate at full power at all times," Niyette remarked in a snide voice. "It's my guess that the spire's storm was made by manmade sorcery—why or how, I don't know yet. And like all our creations, they eventually fade. The storm's power has already exhibited signs of depreciation." She hovered a finger above the moving paper, pointing to a spot that was above even the highest lines. "A hundred years or so ago, I'd be confident in saying our lines would have been etched up here. Maybe in a few hundred centuries, the weather around the spire will be no different to a mild spring tempest in La Valette."

"I'll have to remind our dear spire sorcerer to recharge his curse."

"Or her," Niyette said. "You never know—ugh!" Her disgusted groan came as a result of one of the lines suddenly plunging downwards, reading excessively cold temperatures.

"What happened at the spire?" Theila asked, walking over to the machine.

"Nothing," Niyette grumbled. "The instrument dislodged and fell into the water." She took its corresponding crystal out of the machine, and the leg immediately stopped. "I'll have to replace it soon." She placed it on the table and turned back to Theila. "How long are those two children going to stay here?"

"Iníomara is breaching the subject of giving Julian a tail and having him live with the rest of her people," Theila explained as she rolled the paper back up. "So until then, I suppose."

"Him? Transformed into a merman?" Niyette said. "With that child, he's likely to get eaten by something the moment he enters the water."

Theila shrugged. "Many things would not be as they are had nature not given them a tough environment to weather."

"True." Niyette turned, and as she walked out of the room she said, "Well, he better make up his mind soon. Even the witcher's up and moved on."

Theila found herself alone with nothing but the scratching of nibs on paper and the clicking of cogs to accompany her. She looked out the window and watched the rolling water in the distance.

* * *

She waited until Niyette took another trip to the spire a few weeks later, and then gave Julian and Iníomara a meager excuse to leave the lodge. Theila didn't exactly want to give them the truth that she was actually going off to make one of the gravest mistakes of her life.

Seclusion was found a mile away from Kaer Trolde Harbor on a small rock that jutted out of the water. It couldn't really be classified as an island, as a few steps too many in any direction would lead to a plummet into the ocean.

Theila stepped out onto the top of the rock. She looked over her shoulder at the stone keep atop the ridged expanse of Ard Skellig in the distance. She took the small charm and lifted it up to her face, running the old, braided string between her fingers. They stopped at the smooth, round shell. Closing her eyes, the sorceress took a deep breath.

Necromancy was a blacklisted practice because of its violation of ethics—humanity was stringent on its views of the deceased, and what was laid to rest was left to rest. But the magic of death had a far more sinister element that most were unaware of.

To call the spirit of one passed back to the plane of the living required a receptacle for that spirit to inhabit. Only those of powerful or cursed beings could exist in the world without ones. But the souls of the ordinary needed vessels, and those vessels needn't be empty to house spirits. Common were the chilling stories of priests performing exorcisms on those said to have been possessed by demons—people who had adopted sudden, erratic behaviors or unexplainably began speaking in foreign tongues. These were the unfortunate, unknowing dabblers of necromancy, and the source of their haunting behaviors were those who had once been ordinary people, not demons.

Theila had brought nothing else with her besides that which would help her complete the ritual. But unlike the black magic dabblers, she was fully aware of what she was doing. That didn't make it any less dangerous.

Even the casting of necromantic spells felt different from any other form of magic. There was first the ritual to be done, though it was not as elaborate as many believed. Theila wafted out a blanket and knelt over it. On the ground in front of her, she placed a dark gray candle—one that was exclusively used for necromancy, and thus Theila had to purchase it from the black market through a middleman. She had been exceedingly careful to hide her trail. The punishment for the practice of necromancy in Vintrica was expulsion from the Council and a blacklisted name.

The second item Theila had brought was a potion, brewed from a cauldron that had been completely destroyed to hide all traces. Looking down at the dark liquid, Theila grimaced as she thought back to the ingredients that had gone into it—one of which had been her own blood. Its purpose was to attract the summoned spirit to its designated vessel and make the possession easier.

Theila uncorked the potion and, while plugging her nose, downed it quickly. She lowered her head. Still holding her nose, she gathered saliva and spat it out to the side to mitigate the taste that would linger in her mouth. She lowered her hand. It hadn't helped.

Lastly, she raised the shell charm in front of her. Theila pinched the charm between her fingers and closed her eyes. In a low voice, she began to chant. The beauty of the Elder tongue was marred by the dark verses she recited. Then, at the close of the enchantment, she lit the candle with a snap of her fingers. The bulb that danced at the end of the wick was eerily black—a beacon for the dead.

It happened in a matter of seconds. The shell charm clattered onto the rock. An intense sensation of suffocation seized the sorceress as though a hand had reached in and ripped the air from her lungs. Strong, unbreakable forces arched her back and pulled her head back. She leaned at an impossible angle, held up as though an invisible string was connected to her chest. Her arms dangled listlessly at either side. Her eyes had rolled back until only white was visible.

Then, she rolled back up. Her arms were motionless at her side. Her unseeing eyes pointed out to the ocean. The black fire flickered.

"Where am I? What has happened to me?"

"I have called you back, Ena."

The same voice spoke both sides of the conversation, though one sounded different from the other. Two minds shared what once had been one.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Theila. I'm a sorceress. Listen to me closely, Ena. I have summoned you back to this world to learn of the truth behind your death."

"Why do you want to know?"

No response came from the same mouth at first. Then, a hesitant reply.

"I need to know. And so does he."

"I see your thoughts. See them as though they were my own. You've peered into his mind to learn about me." Her voice broke. "He came back for me?"

"What happened? Why did you do it?"

"When the ice melted, he would leave. He would sail away from the island, never knowing what would happen in his absence."

The connection flowed both ways. As Ena had shared in Theila's memories, so could she in the girl's. With the halls of the keep empty, with Undevar gone, the grandmaster would descend upon Ena and drag her up to the grandmaster's wing. There, he threw her against the walls and furniture, beat and kick and spit on her, and all the while calling her his runt's whore. At first she had begged and screamed for him to stop. But when week after week became month after month, her screams became dead silence.

And after Valdre had gotten his fill of beating he would drag her into his study, throw her down next to his taxidermy, and force himself on her until she bled. This too she learned to bear out in silence.

"He knew Undevar loved me, and while he hurt me he liked knowing that." Her voice came out in a tormented whisper. "I couldn't tell him, but I asked him to take me away."

"Ena, I'm so sorry. You know now that he came back for you."

"But not before he left me—took away my hope. I could not spend another year like that. The grandmaster would come for me as soon as he was gone."

"I understand. As I have felt Undevar's pain, so can you. You know how much he missed you."

"Who are you, sorceress? Why is this the truth you seek?"

"I want to know for his sake."

"Do you love him?"

"No, Ena. I don't."

"Does he love you?"

Theila wouldn't answer. Both of them already knew. When she had delved into Undevar's mind, she'd seen that the witcher no longer harbored any feelings for his lost lover—the last traces that had survived after heartbreak had been mellowed out by time. All that remained was guilt.

And by the time he had come back from the spire, something new had begun to intrude into his mind. He saw the woman he had once called weak—the one whose kindness towards Julian unsettled deep, hidden envy within him. She was, of course, beautiful. And, though Undevar was reluctant to admit it, intelligent. Strong, in a way he never had been. She had something he didn't, and he for once didn't mind. That which had lain dormant within him was slowly starting to reawaken.

"I still love him." Her voice was riddled with heartbreak. "I know it's not fair, but I still love him. Please, just let me see him one more time. Please!"

Panicked, the sorceress realized she was being pushed from her own mind. Theila began to feel all sensations ebb—the cool morning air, the sound of the water, even the connection she had with Ena. She fought to retain control, fearing the worst should she fail. And what scared her was that she didn't know what would happen if she did.

"Just one more time!" The desperate spirit, too, was unaware of what it was doing. Selfishness did not drive what had once been an anguished girl. All it wanted was one last glimpse of the only thing that could comfort it.

Theila fought back, pushing against the tormented spirit. The last bit of grip she had on her mind had been pushed to the very edge—the last sliver. The sorceress's body shuddered heavily, belying the struggle concealed within. A strained, trembling hand reached forward, convulsing as two forces fought to control it.

And then one jerk of the wrist. A quick flick that sent the candle in front of the sorceress tumbling from the rock. The gray wax and trailing black flame disappeared into the crashing water. The beacon died and the connection was cut.

But before it did, Theila heard one last thing—one last desperate call that existed only in her mind.

 _"Please!"_

Ena was gone. The spirit had disappeared. Gasping, Theila fell forward and caught herself on the rock in front of her. She stared down at the rock between her hands, noticing the drops of sweat falling from her nose hitting it. It wasn't just sweat, she realized.

Theila sat on the rock alone and cried over what she had witnessed—over the girl whose name was only known to two people out of the entire world.

When she was collected enough, she returned to the lodge to face Julian with a synthetic smile. She avoided the eyes of Iníomara as she fled quickly into Niyette's room. Her mistress still hadn't yet returned. Theila opened the cherry wood cabinet and silently looked for the strongest bottle of port she could find.

* * *

Midsummer on the isles was no warmer than a chilly spring morning in Kovir. Theila was not too keen on seeing what winter in Skellige was like. She already disliked the kind of cold she knew.

The two sorceresses continued to visit Sansira's Spire, collecting data through instruments and by hand. Occasionally, Undevar would stop by. Surprisingly, Theila found herself glad to see him, though he had reverted back to the sour man she had first met. But the sorceress wasn't fooled, not when she knew what he didn't. It was strange seeing him in this different light. It had been much easier to hate him.

There was sometimes another witcher that accompanied him, and this one was horrid. Theila had indulged in her curiosity and looked into his mind. The things she saw in his head as he looked at her made her stomach turn, and she quickly pulled out of it.

Thankfully the other witcher never stuck around for too long. He had tried to make brash advances towards the two women, but neither reciprocated. With the well dry, he moved on. But not before throwing derogatory quips at the two of them. Niyette, practically sensing the hex spring-loaded on Theila's fingertips, had told her that it wasn't worth it. "I'd rather you not make a habit of cursing witchers," her mistress told her.

Undevar asked her about their progress on the spire. Theila gave a formally vague answer. She felt uneasy knowing what thoughts he hid pertaining to her. If she hadn't looked into his head, Theila would've figured that Undevar, being a Bear, wasn't capable of romantic feelings beyond lust. But she had seen contradictory evidence in his head.

And that was another thing. There had been someone else once, and Theila couldn't help but feel like she would be intruding on something sacred. Not that there were any feelings to make her do that, anyway.

Theila had never fallen in love. It wasn't something that could be taught or picked up from the pages of a book. The closest she had ever gotten was being attracted to men that were physically appealing. But the deep-seated emotion that was supposed to follow never would come.

That's why this witcher made her uncomfortable. He visited their lodge a few times during the summer, always using some excuse to make it seem like he hadn't come for the actual reason he did. Undevar would ask Theila magic-related questions—things he encountered during his contracted quests that he needed information about. Almost every question he had could've been answered by a Skelligan druid. Theila never told him that, as she suspected he already knew. And the odd thing was that she was happy he hadn't turned to a druid instead. Theila wondered what this witcher was doing to her. Theila had never fallen in love, but he was changing that.

Sometimes she caught Undevar staring, but his cat eyes would dart away when their gazes strayed too close. But then, one time when their eyes locked, the witcher didn't hide. He watched her, his brow slightly furrowed. Theila blinked and looked back down at the sketches of runes the witcher had shown from his journal.

"Where is that charm? The shell one?"

Theila's heart skipped. She hadn't seen that charm since contacting Ena. "I don't know," she answered.

She had expected him to react angrily. Instead, Undevar replied, "Good. I was going to tell you to get rid of it anyway."

The sorceress's eyes shot up. "Why?"

Undevar's eyes wandered to the window next to them. "Thing's light as a feather," he said, "but I've been dragging it around like an anchor. I shouldn't have carried it around with me all this time. It's made me weak."

"There you go again, using a word you don't understand," Theila said.

"I know exactly what it means," Undevar snapped, his eyes returning to Theila's. They glowed fiercely. "I made this mistake once." He reached forward and closed his journal with a forceful slam. "Don't you have enough data on that damned rock? Get out of Skellige and go back to the Continent already." He dragged the journal off the table and stood. So did Theila.

"Wait," she said to the witcher as he was leaving. "Just—let me see those runes again. Just one more time." When she uttered those words, her voice was almost someone else's.

Undevar paused at the door, one foot past the threshold. He looked back at her. Theila didn't need telemancy to see the battle—it was right there in his eyes.

"Valdre was right," he muttered. And just like that, one side prevailed. "Never again."

 _Valdre_. That name bit into her. She had only met him once, but heard his mention time and time again. The words of a mermaid returned to her. _He is as much a victim as she was—both because of the same monster_.

Niyette and Theila continued to work on studying the spire, though research was wrapping up to an end. The shroud of mystery surrounding the enchanted storm was starting to thin. They had managed to pin the everlasting storm on a set of runes embedded in the rock, though their exact location on the spire was yet to be found. The sorceresses were beginning to suspect that it was somewhere within the structure. But during their expeditions to the spire, no entrance had been found. There was one place they hadn't looked—the very top. But the entrance was negligible, Niyette had argued, and going to the very peak was far too dangerous. All that mattered was that they knew the cause of the storm.

The end of their stay at Skellige was on the horizon. In the meantime, the women busied themselves mapping out projections of the storm's power and what would happen to the surrounding environment should the runes be removed. Then the choice of disenchanting Sansira's Spire would be debated with the rest of the Elemental Magi. Theila found it funny that a set of individuals who had never once stepped foot in Skellige was making these kind of decisions.

Theila fell into autopilot as the weeks drew to a close. Her mind was busy thinking up schemes that she was shocked by. But one thing was for certain—Skellige had changed her, and there was no going back now.

The day before they were to return to Vintrica for the winter, Theila told Niyette that she was staying on the isles. Niyette's shock was broadcasted in a rare, fleeting flash across her face before she stonily demanded Theila tell her why. Theila could only give a broad answer. Niyette accepted it, telling Theila she would inform the headmistress of her decision.

The next morning, Theila heard the roar of Niyette's portal. By the time it died down, she was already feeling alone. To comfort herself in the empty lodge, Theila sat down and began writing another letter. In it, she began as she usually did for letters to Codren—a simple greeting to her old friend and a few lies saying that she was doing well.

Then she told him that she was spending the rest of the year in Skellige. He would be surprised, of course. Like everyone else. _I have business_ , she wrote, _with the grandmaster of the Bear school._ She didn't dare go further than that.

* * *

One of the masters, more his underlings than the students, came to him with news. Valdre greeted the old witcher with nothing but silence. He, like the others, was fierce, unbending—but most importantly, loyal. That was the only trait Valdre valued in his masters. Whether they were good at passing lessons onto the runts was of no consequence to him.

This one brought news of a visitor. At first, Valdre was displeased, and he could see it passing onto the master as discomfort. But when the grandmaster learned of whom it was that had come to the island, agitation was replaced by intrigue.

Valdre shoved his chair back as he stood, letting the back hit the wall. His form grew form behind the desk. The master watched him. "What should I tell her?"

"Nothing," Valdre answered, "for now. She's on my island—she'll abide by my schedule. And right now…" He knitted his fingers together and stretched his arms out in front of him, letting his shoulders crack. "I'm quite busy. And then when I'm nice and settled, send her in."

The sorceress walked in ten minutes later. Even without looking, he could tell she was shocked. And no doubt offended, though offending a Continental was about as easy as killing one. Valdre leaned nonchalantly back, lifting his arms from the steaming water and resting them up on the edge of the pool. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman take a step back. "You said you wanted to talk," Valdre prompted. "Well, I'm all ears now."

"Surely you aren't—I won't. I'm not speaking to you like this," the woman replied stubbornly. Valdre hated cocksure wenches. Like a wild mare, this one would need breaking in.

"You've got five minutes to be on this island, and I'm not about to rush my bath."

The sorceress held onto her obstinacy for just a few more seconds before it broke. They never lasted long. Valdre always made sure of that.

"I—."

"Where's that other one?" Valdre interrupted.

The sorceress paused. "She's not here," she replied. "Niyette returned to Vintrica."

"The school up on the Dragon Mountains? I've heard of it." He propped his feet onto a step next to him. "Full of prude wenches—a place drier than the south."

"I didn't come here to discuss your opinion of my school," the sorceress said tersely.

"Ah, now you're starting to sound like her. That mistress of yours with the nads. So what are you here for then?"

"I've come," the sorceress said slowly, "with a proposal."

"Hm," Valdre grunted. "And what else?"

"Just a proposition. All I ask is that you consider it."

Finally, Valdre turned towards the sorceress, propping an elbow on the stone. "Thought you would've learned by now," he said. "The last time you showed your face to me with one of those, it didn't go so well for you now did it?"

"I think you'll find this one mutually beneficial," the sorceress replied, crossing her arms. There she went again, trying to broadcast her petty defiance.

"That so?"

"Yes," the sorceress replied. "I am requesting to serve as advisor to you and your guild." The sharp, barking laugh that answered her words made her jump.

 _"Advisor?"_ Valdre repeated. "To me? Grandmaster of the School of Bear? This isn't some pooched Redanian court. Besides, if I wanted a lap wench, I'd get one with less of a mouth on her."

"No grandmaster of the other witcher schools has ever instated an advising adept before. This would put you above the others."

"Below, more like," Valdre retorted. "To take counsel from a pair of paps? I'd be laughed into the next century."

"I doubt it," the sorceress replied. "Lucky for you, they hold women in a… more different light."

"I've already got a mage."

"But he's not from Vintrica," the sorceress pointed out. "I've decades of professional training—all of which could be at your disposal. Full access to all of my abilities and research." As she spoke, Valdre let his eyes slide up and down her form. The tailored dress didn't hug her body as tightly as he would've liked, and that collar was too high to give him any titillation. He'd much rather prefer full access to something of hers that was far more personal.

"And what do you get out of this should I agree?"

"Prestige," the sorceress answered immediately. "To serve someone with as much power as you… My behavior from last we met was driven by fear of it. I was wrong then, but now I understand."

"A snake's tongue doesn't befit that pretty mouth of yours. You think you can rub my knob and have me purring? I can see that they don't teach you how to lie well at Vintrica."

Valdre loved seeing the shock enter her eyes as she was disarmed. It always gave him the greatest satisfaction, and he had to resist the urge to climb out of the water and take her. Only a fool would try to corner a sorceress.

"What I say is the truth," she said. "I am not one to frivolously apologize."

Instead of answering, Valdre planted his hands on the edge of the pool and pulled himself out of the water. He saw the sorceress drop her hands and turn sharply, hurrying for the exit. "Don't leave. We're not done talking," he told her.

"I am _not,"_ the sorceress replied hotly, "talking to you like this!"

"One thing you ought to know if you're going to be sticking around here," Valdre said, "is that I don't give requests." The sorceress stopped, but remained facing the door. She was learning, but there was still some progress to be made. And Valdre was going to make sure there would be progress. He was going to accept her proposition—not because he wanted her advice. This woman's rebellion against him, and all the ways he would break it, filled him with excitement.

Valdre stepped over to a rack of towels and dried himself. The sorceress kept her face towards the door. The old witcher wrapped a towel around his waist and walked towards her in slow, lengthy steps. He could practically feel the tension in the sorceress's body. "All right, advisor," he said. "Look at me."

The sorceress turned her head, peeking at him out of the corner of her eyes. More defiance. Good—Valdre was glad their first lesson would come so soon.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and whirled her around, slamming her back against the door. "I said _look."_

His hand immediately lit up with pain as though he had touched something red-hot. Valdre pulled his hand back, locking away any reaction to the pain. "You will _not_ touch me!" the sorceress hissed.

Valdre watched her carefully. He could hear the pounding of her heart. "Undevar," he said. The sorceress's brow furrowed. "That's the real reason you're here, isn't it?" The grandmaster cocked his head. "That runt seems to have a talent for attracting such weak creatures." He lifted a hand and pressed it against the door next to the sorceress's head. "Fine. I won't touch you, but I'll still ruin you." He turned away and sauntered to where his clothes waited. "Now get out."

* * *

Though Theila never heard a word, she knew what kinds of speculations were being made as a result of her presence at the keep—the most obvious one being that her relationship with the grandmaster was far more than just a professional one.

She couldn't debunk them, and even if she tried to it would never work. But the rumors were far from the truth. In reality, she hadn't let Valdre lay a hand on her since that day in the pool. But no matter how she tried to keep him at bay, subtly threaten him with her power, Theila still felt like she was never the one holding the better hand. Every second she was around that man made her feel as though she were on the verge of danger.

Winter came and brought the crowd back home. Theila missed the grim solitude of the mostly empty keep when the cold air became filled with hoots and shouted comments that would make a catcaller blush. But worst of all, she dreaded _his_ return. And he was there when winter came knocking.

The first time Undevar saw her, he paused. And then he turned right around and disappeared around the corner he had come from. Likely, he had already heard the rumors. Theila already knew what he was thinking without telemancy. She wished she could tell him the truth.

He must have stewed over it for the entirety of the night, because the next day he confronted her as soon as he set eyes on her. Undevar's gait was quick and determined. Theila watched the distance between them shrink and stood her ground. The undersides of his eyes were ringed with dark bags. His face seethed from her betrayal.

"You don't belong here."

She had heard those words spoken in his memories, but this time they were spoken bitterly, angrily.

"I'll determine if I do."

"You had me fooled, sorceress," Undevar said with a laugh devoid of any emotion. "Damn well _fooled._ Made a right show pretending to be the queen of righteousness, huh? Then a bit of power comes along and you just spread your legs wide open for it." He suddenly slammed his fist against the wall. A bit of crumbled stone clattered to the floor. "But he's my grandmaster, isn't he? Anything I want actually belongs to him. That's how it works, doesn't it?" Undevar turned and marched away. Silently, Theila climbed the stairs to the second floor and came to a window. She paused by a window to watch Undevar storm out into the training yard and take his heartbreak out on a dummy.

Valdre made it clear that she was never his advisor. Anything she said to him was answered with a laugh, quip, or condescending silence. But even if he refused to learn anything from her, Theila learned plenty through him. She became familiarized with the inner workings of the guild—how the gears of the school turned. She knew the layout of the keep, particularly the grandmaster's wing, thoroughly. And with this knowledge, Theila quietly stocked her mental arsenal.

She soon came to realize who Valdre's real target was. It was never her. She was only another bolt in the crossbow the grandmaster pointed at him—the one who trusted him the most.

Valdre had called her up to his study one day. Theila hated the vile place. It was filled with those horrid stuffed beasts and the armor of dead men—trophies to stroke the grandmaster's inflated ego.

She walked in and found the grandmaster admiring the taxidermy of a bear. This one had been young when it died. Standing on its hind legs, it only came up to Valdre's height.

"These past few weeks, I've noticed that my wee pupil hasn't been himself. Something's troubling the poor runt." Valdre reached up and gently gripped the bear by its lower jaw. "I thought you fancied him. Why are you holding back on Undevar?"

Theila tightened her hands. "Kindly remind yourself that I am your advisor, not some courtesan."

As expected, Valdre gave a derisive snort. "I wasn't aware people could act as chastity belts as well," he mused. "Quite eye-opening. You really are proving your worth as an advisor, aren't you?"

"Why did you call me?"

"Take off your dress."

Theila's eyes widened with shock. Valdre continued to examine the bear. "I will not—."

"One thing I always make sure," Valdre interrupted, "is that the people around me are replaceable. And Undevar is no exception." Theila saw the grandmaster's fingers squeeze the bear's head. Immediately, she saw thin tendrils of smoke snake up from his hand and smelled the horrid stench of burning hair. Then the bear's head erupted in flames. "Take off your dress, sorceress. I won't touch you, but I don't want to see an ounce of disobedience come out of you tonight. Otherwise I'll have that runt taken out to the courtyard and killed. He may be my most prized student, but no one will question me should I demand it."

Valdre let go of the burning taxidermy and turned his expecting eyes towards Theila. She hesitated only for a second longer before she brought a hand to her back. The lacing that secured the back of her dress quickly undid itself. She unhooked the small clasp at the back of her neck. Then, as though she were peeling off her own skin, she pulled the dress from her shoulders and down until it dropped to the floor. The air was unbearably cold.

With a wave, Valdre gestured towards her. "One more layer," he told her.

"You only said—."

"What is that," Valdre asked softly, "coming out of your mouth just now?"

Theila lowered her eyes to avoid the grandmaster's greedy gaze and did as she was told. Her bra and underwear followed her dress.

"Good lass," Valdre praised. "Now sit on my desk." He pointed. "Right there, where I can see you."

With her eyes still downcast, Theila walked over and perched herself on the edge of his desk. She heard Valdre give a low, rumbling chuckle. "There you go," he said. "Now you're starting to look proper."

"How long do you expect me to just sit here?" Theila hissed through clenched teeth.

"Just long enough." Suddenly the door to the study opened. Theila looked and felt her heart drop when a familiar face came in. Undevar stopped dead in the threshold when he saw her. His eyes quickly scanned over her, darted down to the discarded clothes on the floor, and then to Valdre.

"Grandmaster," he addressed tersely. Theila noticed his knuckles were white as he clenched the doorknob. "You asked for me?"

"Aye, I did." Valdre crossed his arms and crossed the room towards Theila. She noticed how Undevar kept his eyes glued to the grandmaster. "Be a good laddie and get rid of that for me." Valdre jerked his head back towards the stuffed bear whose head was still smoldering.

Undevar let go of the doorknob and walked to the bear. He picked it up without putting the fire out and turned back to leave. Before Undevar reached the door, Valdre suddenly spoke up.

"Hold on, Undevar," he said, stepping towards the younger witcher. Undevar looked back. Valdre nodded towards Theila. She quickly lowered her eyes. Despite the cold, her face burned with uncontrollable shame. "What do you think, hm? Fine creature, innit?" Theila's eyes flickered up and caught Undevar breaking his gaze away from her to look at the décor around the room.

"Fits right in," he said and walked out. The door closed behind him. Theila bit the inside of her lip to hold in a sob. She would rather die than let Valdre hear it and tell him that he won.

The grandmaster looked back at her, the edges of his mouth curled devilishly upward. He took another moment to soak up the image of her naked body atop his desk before uncrossing his arms and waving carelessly at the discarded dress and undergarments. "You've been fine help tonight," he praised. "Get your clothes and get out."

Shock numbed Theila as she dressed and hurried out of the study and the grandmaster's wing. She didn't look at a single person as she desperately sought escape from the suffocating walls of the keep. The winter night was harsh, but she didn't care. Anywhere was better than in there.

Theila found herself stumbling out into the snow-covered yard. She saw the silhouettes of the training dummies and stopped by the one that Undevar had cut to ribbons. Sinking down, Theila leaned against the pole that held up the shredded remains. Air puffed out into white mist as her lips parted and she let out the stifled sob. Her eyes burned against the cold. Tears slid one by one down her icy face.

He hadn't laid a single finger on her tonight, yet she had never felt so violated in her life. Theila had been so sure she could stand up against any abuse he would throw at her. She'd wanted Valdre to know there was at least one woman he couldn't break down.

Yet here she was, sobbing in the snow.

She wanted to flee—open up a portal to Vintrica and leave this hell behind. But the thought of the grandmaster's glee at her retreat reignited her stubbornness. She wasn't going to spend another day here, but she wasn't going to leave without things burning in her wake.

Valdre's threat echoed in Theila's head and made her pause. He had that leverage over her—she couldn't spite Valdre without passing the punishment onto Undevar. And maybe once she wouldn't have cared, but that free woman was gone. She loved him now.

But that didn't matter. The hateful look in his eyes when he had seen her on that desk told Theila that everything he thought he feared was true. He would never look at her the same way.

Her sobs had disappeared under the clattering of her teeth. The tears had gone. Theila looked up and touched a dangling piece of shredded cloth that hung from the ruined dummy. How pitiful it was that she envied an inanimate object.

Rising, Theila wrapped her arms tightly around herself and turned back to the keep. She spotted someone standing in the light of the doorway, but they quickly vanished out of sight as soon as she saw them. Theila immediately worried that it was the grandmaster. But, when looking up at his wing, she saw a lit window and a shadow moving within.

Tucking a snow-covered lock of hair behind her ear, Theila went back into the keep. Anger, sorrow, and fear stole her sleep. Morning took too long to arrive. When it finally did, Theila mustered the courage to go back into the grandmaster's wing and confront the monster lurking within. She could tell he was amused by her quick returned. Before he could slip a jeer in, Theila firmly announced that she was resigning. She loathed the wide grin that cracked across Valdre's face.

"You want out?"

"As regretful as I am, I'd like to return to civilization," Theila shot back. "Back to where I can deal you true damage." She saw the grandmaster's grin falter and continued, "I will tell the Magi, the grandmasters, and anyone with any influence exactly what kind of hovel you run here. I will paint you in the worse light possible so that thousands will know the name Valdre of the Bear Guild is something to laugh at. And when I'm done, I'll be returning to Skellige," she added, "because our research on Sansira's Spire isn't finished, and you couldn't keep us out even if you tried."

Theila clenched a hand in front of her, and every piece of taxidermy in the study suddenly caught fire. "So kill Undevar if that makes you feel better. Take him out into the yard—behead him, disembowel him, beat him into a pulp. Once you're done, you'll realize the one who did this to you is still alive and well. It was a pleasure working with you, Grandmaster."

She let the door slam heavily behind her.

* * *

He heard the sound of her portal the next morning, thundering and crashing like waves angered by a storm. And when the noise died away, Undevar was surprised he still had it in him to feel even emptier.

Yule with his brothers felt odd. It was spent normally, and he even might have considered it fun. With the sorceress gone, the witchers railed on her freely, calling her all sorts of foul names. Undevar found it too easy to join right in. But when darkness settled silence over the keep, he found himself trapped in his own mind. Useless, bitter emotions stirred inside him like a witch's cauldron.

He couldn't have been more relieved at winter's end. Undevar was sure a bit of action down the Path would put him at ease. And fuck, he'd have a lass in his bed every other night just to prove a point to no one in particular.

At first, he made good on his promises. He reveled in the rush of taking down monsters. And on the nights he walked out of brothels or lay spent next to a sleeping form, Undevar told himself the lie that he was more satisfied than he had ever been.

Yet as the days grew warmer, Undevar became restless. He found himself drawn closer and closer to Kaer Trolde—to that little lodge across the bridge from the keep. Eventually, he gave into the incessant pull and traveled to the northern side of Ard Skellig. About a half a mile away from Kaer Trolde, he stopped his horse at the top of a hill. He could see the dark shape of the lodge. Stark dots of light speckled the small structure. Undevar wondered if he would be able to catch a glimpse of her through one of the windows.

Quickly, he furrowed his brow and yanked the reins of his horse around. There was no point anymore. Let sleeping dogs lie. By the year's end, she'd leave Skellige forever and finally leave him alone. There were things to do and no time to rest or reminisce. Undevar had picked up a contract on a water hag that had wandered close after being attracted to a beached whale's decomposing corpse. There were potions to brew and tracking to do in the morning that hopefully wouldn't take all day. Maybe it was placebo, but a necrophage's den always seemed to smell worse after sunset.

He stopped at Fayrlund for the night. The water hag's den was purported to be just an hour's ride to the west of here. The keeper of the village's modest inn was hesitant to house Undevar at first. But upon hearing that the witcher had been contracted to slay the monster that had taken his son, the keeper finally gave him a room.

Undevar was exhausted by the time he reached his bed. He stopped one last time to check that his armor had been set away properly, and then plopped down onto the thin cot. He closed his eyes and dreamt of a silhouette standing in a lit window.

The turning of the doorknob woke him. Undevar opened his eyes. _Fuck_. He had been so fatigued last night that he'd forgotten to lock the door. Undevar was lying on his side, facing the wall with his back to the door. Slowly, he slid his hand underneath the pillow. His fingertips touched the grip of his bone dagger.

Then, in a wild moment of delirium, he wondered if maybe it was her.

One step broke him out of his fantasy. It was heavy. And whoever it was didn't even try to stay quiet.

"Sit up," he heard a gruff voice order. "I know you're awake."

Undevar recognized it, and it shocked him. He pushed himself up and turned. "Grandmaster?"

"You don't lock your doors?" Valdre grunted. "I taught you to be daring, not stupid." He marched over to the cot and sat down. The bedframe groaned under the weight of the two witchers. "Never mind. Quit ogling, Undevar, and listen to me. I need you to go back to those witches, hear me? I need you to gain their trust again, have them bring you to the spire with them. Ride back up to Kaer Trolde in the morning."

"I have a contract, Grandmaster. There's a water—."

Valdre suddenly had Undevar's collar wound in his fist. Undevar was pulled towards him. "You have a contract from _me_ , runt," the old witcher hissed in a low voice. "You know where your priorities should be."

"Yes, Grandmaster."

Satisfied, Valdre let Undevar go and leaned back. "That's a good lad. When the sun comes up, I expect you to point your horse's nose straight towards Kaer Trolde. And once you have the trust of those wenches…" Valdre stood up. Undevar's eyes tracked across the room as they followed the grandmaster. "Let me know. I'll have the next contract for you."

* * *

 _I'm only honest when it rains_

 _If I time it right, the thunder breaks_

 _When I open my mouth_

 _I want to tell you but I don't know how_

 _I'm only honest when it rains_

 _An open book with a torn out page_

 _And my ink's run out_

 _I want to love you but I don't know how_

"Neptune"—Sleeping at Last


	62. Chapter 62 - What Changes a Man

_**A/N: Sorry for the wait.**_

 _ **But like a discount Terminator, I'm back.**_

* * *

Crawling back to that front door never felt so difficult, but his grandmaster had given him little choice. The sorceresses were, predictably, surprised and a little irate to see him. They demanded to know why he had come back. Undevar had insisted he would only answer if he could speak to Theila in private.

When there were only her ears to catch his words, Undevar let them tumble out. He told her of his confliction—that he wanted to hate her, cast her out of his mind. But he couldn't. And coming back was the only thing he knew he had to do. Of course, Undevar told himself that he was simply lying to the sorceress. He was unaware of the higher irony.

When he asked if he could accompany them to the spire, Theila agreed—mainly because she too shared in his inner turmoil. And he was in—just like that. Undevar found himself wishing she had been just a little more resistant.

This spring, their research focused more on the runes that were hidden somewhere on that spire. Undevar accompanied them twice there to search for them. All the while, he could feel Niyette's careful gaze on him. Several times, Undevar could feel the prickling intrusion of magic worm into his head and would seal away any hint of his ulterior motive. It wasn't easy, but a lifetime of being told which thoughts of his mattered and which would deem him weak had made him very good at hiding what he didn't want seen.

Every moment spent at the spire was a battle. The rain battered down like Undevar had never felt before, and each crack of thunder implanted incessant ringing in his ears. On one of their trips, the wind was especially harsh. When it threatened to blow them off of the rock shelf, they decided to call it a day. The portal transported them to the quiet stillness of Kaer Trolde, where every single element of the environment _wasn't_ trying to kill them. Niyette disappeared into the lodge to dry off. Undevar took a few steps before plopping down onto the ground to give his weather-beaten body a well-deserved break. He reached back and wrung out his sopping hair.

Undevar heard steps approach from his right. He turned his head as Theila sat down next to him. She was still soaked—her hair came down in thin curtains on either side of her face, and her waterlogged clothes stuck to her skin.

"Hanging in there?" the sorceress asked.

Undevar looked down. Against the warm Skellige air, his clothes were becoming colder by the second. "Soaked right down to me skids," he grumbled.

"Mine too… I think," Theila said lightly. "If I interpreted that right." She sighed, leaning back on her propped arms. "I didn't think research could get this hazardous. Though I bet it's nothing compared to a witcher's toils. Normally I'd just sit down with a handful of books in front of me." She sat up. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just the first time I've heard you mention witchers without it being an insult."

"That's not true!" Theila scoffed. "I'm only like that when I talk about the witcher next to me."

"Och," Undevar growled. "Cheeky wench."

Theila cracked a smile. They locked eyes. That smile faltered. Undevar looked away. He knew they couldn't bring back what they had been nurturing before winter. Valdre had forced something between him and what might have been.

"Undevar," he heard her say quietly. He looked down, pulling the wet cloak away from his neck. "I want you to know that…" Undevar heard her shift closer. He could practically feel it—like someone bringing an open flame near his skin. "I need you to know that… I'm in love."

 _Hide it._ _Don't you dare fucking think about…_ Undevar planted a hand on the ground and pushed himself back up onto his feet. "Sounds rough," he replied.

When he left, he told them it was because of a contract—something he had to take care of. It was true, which made Undevar no liar. Still, he felt the burden of one all the same. When he got on his horse, he didn't head south to Fayrlund where a water hag was preying on more and more innocent souls by the day—he headed to the harbor. It was off the island where the invisible pull around his neck came from.

When Undevar touched shore, he headed straight up to where his grandmaster waited for him. After hearing of his student's progress, Valdre nodded slowly.

"Good. You make me proud."

Despite himself, Undevar couldn't help but feel elated at the praise. Valdre paced leisurely around the office while Undevar watched him, planted in his spot. "Now, you've probably come to realize that those two are becoming thorns in my side. Just the nature of them, and how they think they… And _that one_." Valdre uncrossed his arms. A fist clenched so hard it shook. Undevar watched it warily. Then, quickly, the hand relaxed and Valdre crossed his arms again. He turned to face Undevar, seizing the younger witcher's gaze.

"I have ambitious plans for this school, Undevar. I only want what's best for the guild and everyone who dwells in it—you know this to be true." He paused, waiting. Obediently, Undevar nodded. Then Valdre continued, "I want us to have the recognition we deserve. We are the guardians of Skellige. How many lives are spared because of what we do?" Valdre turned away and began slowly pacing again. He reached a hand up, gently pinching his gray beard between his fingers and running them down it. "But recognition isn't coming in fast enough, adequately enough. On behalf of my witchers, I am troubled. And as their grandmaster, it came unto me to identify the source of my school's ailment. Are you following me, Undevar?"

"Aye, Grandmaster. I do."

"And I _have_ identified a source. Those two… the thorns. They're not just in my side—they're in _ours_. " Valdre waved a hand between himself and Undevar. "Don't you understand now?"

For once, Undevar didn't speak a word or nod at his grandmaster's inquiry. Luckily, Valdre was too engrossed in what was developing in his head to be bothered. "So, Undevar, this becomes not just my responsibility, but the entire guild's. And I've entrusted this very dire task to you." Valdre stopped and turned to face him. "Those witches—they're getting in the way."

Undevar already had a worrisome premonition of what his grandmaster was going to demand of him, but just to secure his fears in stone, he asked, "What would you have me do?"

He could almost predict every word before they sprung from Valdre's mouth. "I want them silenced," he said, his low voice biting. "When next you bring them to the spire, ensure they do not return."

He couldn't stop the emotion from coloring his face. No… not her. Valdre could've had him go after something else, anyone else. But not her… "You would have me—?"

He had forgotten himself. He had forgotten who he was and where his place, the one he had been reminded of over and over again, was. And no sooner had the words left his mouth did Undevar expect the punishment that was sure to come.

But there was none. Instead, Valdre did something even more bizarre. "Do this, and my seat as grandmaster is guaranteed to you."

Undevar was too stunned for words. Valdre was… offering him something? And not just something—he had proffered to Undevar the one thing that was truly of value to him. Every Bear knew that his grandmaster would fight tooth and nail to defend his place. And it had always been that a fight was the only way to dethrone them.

But here Valdre was, bartering the position away like it was a simple good. A reward for a contract, when usually all was given was a sack of coin. What the grandmaster was doing almost frightened Undevar.

"You could tell them it was an accident," Valdre said. "Sansira's Spire is a perilous place. A tragic accident would not be so out of place."

"And I will be promised the title of grandmaster?"

"That is correct." It sounded almost too good to be true.

Undevar couldn't let this happen again. To fall in love, only to lose it. And again, it would be his fault. He almost wished he could refuse. Maybe he could.

But… to be grandmaster. From the shadow of the throne, Undevar had always gazed upon it and yearned for it. And Valdre, of course, knew this. Their mentor-mentee relationship had always existed with that specter lingering over them—that one day one of them would die at the hands of the other.

"I know how you must feel," Valdre told him, breaking the silence. "Such a concept—passing down the title like this—is foreign to us. But like I said, this is for the good of the guild. And what grandmaster would I be if I did not hold that as my highest regard?"

"I understand, Grandmaster."

"I thought you would, laddie," Valdre replied lightly, walking over and leaning on the edge of his desk. Undevar's eyes flickered to it, remembering where she sat. "Out of all of them, you've always been the one to do me proud. I expected nothing less of you. I'll rest easy, knowing the guild will be in the hands of someone worthy of it. Now go on, Undevar. Do what you were meant to do."

* * *

The storm crashed relentlessly over them as if embodying the wrath of the gods. Undevar glanced upwards to where the peak of the spire towered sharply over him. Then, when he couldn't stand the pummeling rain any longer, he lowered his face back down. His heart pounded. He didn't know when it would be the right time—or even if there was a right time for what he was about to do.

"Maybe it's below the base," he heard Theila shout to Niyette. "Under the water."

"If that's the case, we can't get to it this time," Niyette yelled back over the drumming of rain. "The storm has picked up in strength—we're at the top of the fluctuation again!"

The storm was even stronger. It was like the heavens had blessed his timing. Sharpened his weapon for him.

Undevar looked back. The sorceresses were further below the rock shelf, slowly making their way up the perilous path as they combed the wet rocks for the hidden runes. He needed to off one and have the other open a portal back to Skellige before he would do the same to them, but Undevar wasn't sure how he would be able to pull it off.

He watched Theila inch closer to where he stood, pressing her body against the rock. Her…

Undevar had spent a long, long time trying to justify to himself before coming here. He reminded himself of Valdre's promise. He repeated that she had ruined his life, and he was paying her back. He told himself that love was weakness.

Bear would not have a weak grandmaster.

Theila stopped in her tracks when she realized that Undevar had stopped. She looked up to meet his waiting gaze. "Something wrong?"

"There's a dead end up ahead," Undevar told her. "This is as high as the shelf goes—beyond is a flat rock face. Unless you fancy a climb, this is as far as we can go."

The sorceress's brow furrowed. Before she could say anything, a bolt of lightning shot close to where they stood and the immediate clap of thunder followed it. Both Undevar and Theila ducked away into the rocks. Then Theila lifted her face. "They're at the top—I'm certain of it!" she said. "Apart from below the water, that's the only place we haven't looked!"

Undevar looked past Theila and to Niyette. She was close behind, but still far enough to be out of earshot of their shouting. "Why don't you just zap us to the top?"

"Niyette says we can't—."

Undevar reached forward, grabbing her arm. He leaned close. Above the pounding of the rain, he heard her heart quicken. "Not Niyette. Just us."

"But—."

"Let Niyette keep poking around in these crevices all she wants. If you say they're up there, Theila, then I believe you."

The sorceress paused. She lifted a hand and rested it over his. _Please don't make this any harder_. "Only for a minute or two," she told him. "Then we come right back down. It's dangerous up there."

"I know."

Undevar let go of her arm. Theila reached up and took both of his. In one, blinking, terrifying moment, the rain suddenly stopped pummeling him. But the ground was gone, and the air, and everything that told his senses that all was well and normal. But before he had a chance to panic, Undevar suddenly felt it all resume.

He let out a hollow breath as though he had been holding it in for eternity. A slap of wind answered him. The witcher stumbled back a step before bracing himself. He saw Theila hunker down too. Then she looked around, and her face took on a look of wonder. Undevar looked down.

The peak of the spire was like a round tabletop around 15 feet in diameter. Three quarters of its circumference were bordered in walls of pointed ridges that came up like the tips of a crown. Around their feet, in various-sized deposits, were clusters of round, orb-like rocks. In fact, they didn't look too far from eggs. Through the dim lighting of the storm, each ovular stone radiated bright blue as if pockets of light were trapped at the centers.

Crouching down, Undevar reached for the nearest deposit. As his hand neared, the glow within the rocks seemed to intensify. "What are these?" he called to Theila. "They can't really be phoenix eggs, can they?"

"No," Theila answered. "These are just stones, though imbued with deep magical properties." Through the rain, Undevar saw her face light up. "Of course!" she said. "These must be the conduits that are channeling the storm!" Holding her hood in place, the sorceress looked around. "The runes must be nearby! I _knew_ it!" She hurried over to the ridge and placed both hands onto the wet rock.

Undevar tore his eyes away from her. He rested his fingertips on the round stones, watching the blue light grow bright under his touch. Well, he had done it—completed the sorceress' task. But he beckoned himself to remember that there was one of his own.

The witcher's gaze drifted over to the open edge. Rising to his feet, he walked carefully to it. Undevar saw the stretch of water beyond the spire, and the gradient of the storm's magic. In the distance, the water churned mildly. Closer and closer to the spire, the waves grew angrier until they came up in torrents against the rock, slapping and spitting sea foam.

"Do you see it?" he heard Theila shout. Undevar looked over his shoulder. Theila was making her way over to him. His heart began to race. A part of him wanted to tell her to stay away. But Undevar remained silent until she was at his side. With a hand raised to provide minimal protection from the rain, Theila looked out at the sea.

"What a view," she said.

 _Don't talk like that. Don't sound so casual like I'm not about to do it_.

"I never thought I'd ever see something like this with my own eyes."

 _I will be grandmaster. The title will be mine—Valdre gave me his word. The guild will follow me. It has always been the tradition of Bear that one must first spill blood to be grandmaster. And like all the ones before me, I will uphold the tradition._

Undevar took a deep breath. Finally, he forced himself to look at her. The sorceress's eyes immediately snapped to his. They were olive.

"I hope you will learn to forgive me."

He moved forward like a trained hunter. His hand had the sorceress's throat in its tight grip. Eyes wide, she opened her mouth and nothing could come out. The witcher's grip was tight, deadly. Her hands came up and pulled at his wrist.

He couldn't do it himself. He couldn't watch her face. But there was a coward's way out, and he took it. With all his might, Undevar threw her from the edge. He saw the fluttering of her cloak, fanned out like useless wings, and the flung locks of her hair before she plummeted out of sight. Undevar gasped for breath as though a crushing grip had been around his neck as well. He asked Freya to take care of her.

And then he froze—suddenly stuck in nightmarish déjà vu. No… _no!_ He wasn't going to do this again—Undevar wasn't going to kneel down and beg the gods to smooth out his mistakes.

'Valdre, what have you made me do?' he roared in his mind. 'What kind of man have you made me become? Damn you! Damn your guild! You forced me to be too much of a fool to see what really matters!'

He was afraid he was too late, but wouldn't let himself think too much on it. And he hardly thought at all before what he did next. Despite his desperate panic Undevar had the good sense to cast a shell of Quen around his body before he dove off the edge.

The transition between his jump and when free fall took sickening, terrifying control of his body took only seconds. And then he fell. And fell. It seemed like he was trapped in the air, like he was never going to reach her.

And then before Undevar knew it, the swirling water rushed up at him. He crashed through its surface. From the moment Undevar entered it, the sea immediately had all control over him. A wave and its underlying current shoved him back. Then one coming from the opposite direction rammed him forward. The water threw him back and forth like a ragdoll, barely giving Undevar the chance to collect his bearings.

Suddenly he felt his back slam into something so forcefully, it splayed his limbs out. The only thing that managed to keep him alive was the Quen shield that shattered on impact. Then the currents ripped him away from the base of the spire, pushing him through the restlessly swirling waters. All around him was pitch black, and Undevar could only hear the hammering of his heart in his ears.

A brilliant flash of light caught his attention. Undevar turned his head to the right and caught sight of a blurred zigzag of lightning through the murky water. He reoriented himself and swam towards where it had been. Undevar pushed and pushed until finally—.

His head broke through the surface. The witcher gasped for air, his mouth filling with seawater that splashed his face and rain. He spat it out, but before he could take another breath a wave crashed over his head and pushed him back below. As the water foamed and hissed above, Undevar scanned the water around him.

There was a faint shimmering in the darkness just ahead. It looked like a giant bubble. Undevar swam towards it. As he approached, he began to see a form inside the twinkling orb. Theila was inside—floating listlessly in the center. Just before she had hit the water, she'd managed to cast the protective bubble. But the drop had caused her to lose consciousness, and Undevar could see the walls of the bubble rapidly thinning with Theila no longer able to sustain it.

The shield evaporated just as Undevar reached her. Wrapping his arms around her limp body, he struggled to climb back up to the surface. It seemed a miracle that he did. As Undevar gasped in a lungful of air, he felt Theila's head loll against him. A tired arm rose to drape around his neck.

In the dark water, Undevar's feet kicked desperately to keep the two of them above the surface. The tumultuous water threatened to churn them back below. The aching in his limbs told Undevar he wouldn't be able to keep them up for much longer. The spire was too far—they'd never make it if they tried to swim.

"Can you get us ba—." Undevar cut off, lifting his eyes as a wave grew over them. Panicked, he held a hand protectively against the back of Theila's head. Without thinking, he ducked his face down against her hair.

The water crashed painfully over them and forced them back down. Undevar felt Theila tear away from him. The current turned him upside down, sideways—he wasn't really sure anymore.

Light flashed, telling him he was looking up towards the sky. But there was so, so much water between him and that sky. And there was some unrelenting force that wouldn't let him go, held him underneath the waves.

'Maybe it's Freya,' a rogue thought suggested. 'Giving you what you rightly deserve.' Undevar was starting feel calm, relaxed. Things didn't seem so bad. The water wasn't that cold anymore. Undevar closed his eyes.

And then it happened again—that empty feeling of being trapped in a void. All of his senses stopped working, and then, in a blink, returned in a maddening rush. Undevar gasped. Instead of water filling his throat, his lungs expanded painfully with air.

Rain pelted his face. He heard thunder scream over him. His orange eyes flew open.

"Theila? Theila!" he heard a woman's voice cry. It sounded familiar.

Undevar turned his head. He saw blue cloth cover the rock next to him, draped over a limp form. Someone was crouched over that form. It was her—that other one. Niyette!

Undevar tried to lift his head. The movement caught Niyette's eye. She looked at him, her piercing gaze shooting straight through his. Undevar felt the tingling grip of magic seize his head and realized he had stopped hiding. It was too late.

She saw everything. The conversation with the grandmaster—the deal that had been struck. She saw Undevar's plans to kill Theila and do the same with her once he had forced her to open a portal back for him. She saw what kind of coward was hiding underneath the witcher.

Slowly, the sorceress rose to her feet. She stepped around Theila, walking towards him. Undevar was too fatigued to move away. But he tried. He was scared of every step that brought her closer to him.

Niyette's hand suddenly shot up, aimed towards him. Her fingers curled in, claw-like, as though crushing something. Suddenly, pain squeezed in his chest. The heartbeat that had been pounding in his ears suddenly stopped, and Undevar realized what Niyette was doing. She was trying to kill him.

The pain made the witcher's body shudder. He grasped at his chest, his fingers clawing uselessly against his armor. It hurt, _it hurt!_ His mouth opened, but all that came out was a rattle. If he could have, he would've begged.

There was a flash of movement. A pair of arms flew up and yanked Niyette's back. The incredible pain suddenly exploded. But then the hollow thudding of his heart resumed.

"Niyette, _don't!"_

The black-haired sorceress turned to the other. Her voice was as sharp as the thunder above their heads. "He tried to kill you, Theila! He was going to murder the both of us—just for his own personal gain!"

"Please!"

"Do not let your feelings get the way!" Niyette barked.

Theila shook her head. It took everything in her to stay upright. "Don't let him turn you into a murderer too!"

Niyette paused. Then, she looked back at Undevar. He saw it in her eyes—there was no chance for forgiveness. Before he could say anything, the sorceress suddenly raised a hand. A portal opened. Gripping Theila tightly by the arm, Niyette turned into the swirling vortex. Before she disappeared, Theila looked back at him. And then she was gone.

Pulling in heavy breaths, Undevar fought to sit up. He stared at where she was, but nothing was there. The only thing he had now was the wind and the rain. Undevar lifted his eyes to the sky, ignoring the water that slapped his face and struck his eyes. It slowly dawned on him—he was trapped. Thousands of miles of treacherous ocean separated him from home.

But it was okay, he realized. Everything was going to be okay. Things were how they were meant to be. It should have been this way all along. Undevar only regretted that he never told Theila that she wasn't the only one in love. But that was okay.

Undevar stood up. His steps stumbled clumsily over the wet rocks. Baser instinct took over his tired mind, telling him to find shelter from the rain. He found a small pocket carved into the side of the spire and ducked down into it. But his armor and clothes were soaked down to his skin. Undevar huddled his arms to his midsection. He lifted his head to examine the pocket around him. It wasn't exactly what he'd expected for his tomb. But then again, no witcher ever gave much thought about his grave, only that one eventually waited.

Time became nothing more than a void in which to listen to the rain, waves, and thunder crash outside. Undevar huddled against the rock, shivering. He was cold. So cold.

And then—Undevar wasn't sure how long it had been—the coldness began to fade. He found himself growing warmer and warmer… and warmer and warmer. Now… now it was getting too hot. The witcher lowered his arms. Then, they came up. As though possessed by some kind of crazed spirit, they began tearing at the buckles of his armor. Cloth was yanked from his boiling skin.

"I'm fuckin' melting," he mumbled to himself, throwing his discarded armor and clothes aside. He was shivering hard, but somehow the air was _roasting_ him.

It was getting harder and harder to concentrate. Undevar blinked, feeling on the verge of falling asleep. He had pulled off all of his armor, his tunic, and his undershirt. His skin was still as cold as the air around him, and he was still melting.

But he was too tired. Undevar leaned heavily against the rock. He couldn't even shiver anymore. Slowly, his eyes closed. For some reason, everything seemed perfectly okay.

* * *

 _Whatever he was drinking was good—strong, but pleasant to the taste. And his tankard never seemed to empty of the heavenly stuff. The tavern was busy, but at the same time cozy. A fire crackled somewhere. He didn't know from where. It seemed to fill the entire place with life._

 _Theila sat next to him, close enough so that they were nearly touching. A man sat across from them, a stranger but at the same time a friend. He was saying something. Undevar couldn't quite make out the words. Somehow, he knew it was a joke. It made him laugh. So did Theila, and the sound of her voice seemed to brighten the place far more than the fire did._

 _Everyone was happy. It was strange. At the same time, it was paradise. Undevar was no longer a witcher—well, he was. But he wasn't a Bear witcher. He was free._

 _And Theila was here with him too. He was in love with her, and she already knew. And these people around him, those who somehow filled him with so much joy, they weren't from Bear. Cahal wasn't here, nor was Valdre. No one he thought would be here in paradise with him._

 _No… this wasn't paradise. This was a dream. Undevar came to realize that. He looked down at Theila, suddenly worried that she would disappear. But she was still there—bright, happy. Laughing at whatever the man had said._

 _Then she leaned against him. Undevar felt her gentle weight on him—more real than any dream. And then he heard her._

 _"Do you still want to be grandmaster?"_

 _Undevar paused. Did he? Well, yes. Well… no._

 _"I want this," he answered. "Even if it is just a dream."_

 _"Why do you think it just has to be a dream?"_

 _Looking down at his tankard, Undevar considered her words. "You're right," he replied. "It doesn't. I want this."_

* * *

It hurt. Everything hurt. He shifted as he slowly came to. Whatever was underneath him was soft, but it didn't stop the pain that saturated every corner of his body. He was utterly confused, still caught between believing in the dream and coming to terms with reality. The latter was far less desirable, and so his mind clung to the quickly fading delusions. But they had just been dreams, and he was awake now.

The orange of his eyes appeared just barely in slits. Even opening his eyes seemed an effort. He heard someone breathing nearby. They must've known he was awake, because Undevar heard them move closer. A gentle hand draped over his forehead.

"Where'm I?"

"Ard Skellig," a woman's voice answered.

"Why'm I there?"

There was a pause. "Pardon?"

"Is this… real?"

"Um, yes. You're awake now."

Dammit. "Wish I wasn't."

"Huh?"

"I was having this dream," he replied groggily. "Just wish I was still in it."

Whoever it was stopped moving, though Undevar could still feel their heart beating close by. "What kind of dream was it?"

"It…" Undevar fought to recall despite his best efforts to hold onto it. "I was in a tavern. It was nice. I was with…" He trailed off, remember how even though everything had been blurry, the smell of her flowery perfume was perfectly clear. In fact, he could have sworn the gentle fragrance of freesia was over him now.

"With that witcher friend of yours?" the voice filled in.

Undevar blinked. The hazy film that covered his vision didn't get any clearer. "Nay, not him," he mumbled. "That's why I wish I was still there."

"Who was it?" the voice asked. Their curiosity was a little too fixated, but Undevar was far too out of sorts to notice or care.

"Don't matter." His words came out in a sigh. "It'll be the last time I see her."

"Ena?"

"Not her. Ena's gone—been gone. It was a sorceress."

"What happened to the sorceress?"

"I…" The horrible memory, the one that had spawned from reality, rushed in. It covered the last traces of his delusional paradise, like a tidal wave over a little boat. He saw the spire, a spear point jutting into the flesh of the storm. There were two people standing at its peak. And, in a moment of madness, Undevar thought he recalled Valdre standing up on that ledge with her. "I killed her. With my own hands. Asked her to forgive me like that would make a fucking difference. Like it would change what I did. I wanted to be grandmaster… that's the reason. That's the only reason."

The voice didn't reply at first, like whoever there took a moment to quietly ponder over his words. "So the sorceress is dead," they said. "And you are the grandmaster. Why would you want to go back into the dream?"

"I don't _want_ … I don't…" His voice grew louder with each word, breaking through his spellbound delirium. "That tavern was heaven, and she's in there now because of me! And if I could throw myself off the edge just to be able to sit with her, I would! But Freya—that fuckin' wench—would chain me down as soon as she got a hold of me so the hounds could tear at me for eternity! She'd never let me set one foot into that tavern, even if I told her the one I loved was in there!" As his words spilled out, he began to grow more and more hysterical.

Then the hand returned to his forehead. He heard a soft shushing and felt a calmness settle over him. His heart slowed and his breathing became steady again. Then he heard the shushing grow louder as though the lips they came from were drawing closer. Undevar turned his head towards it. The fog over his vision lessened, and what he saw was impossible.

The shushing became a whisper, and it was her voice that he heard. "I forgive you." Someone kissed him, so softly and sweetly Undevar could have sworn he was back in that tavern.

He opened his eyes and she was still there. The freesia was still there. "I thought you said I was awake."

"You are."

Undevar brought a hand up and touched her cheek. He felt skin. She was really there. "Theila?"

Her hand came up to his and squeezed it. "Yes, it's me."

Wait… okay, now he was _really_ confused. He said so, and to his dismay the sorceress suddenly pulled away from him. "I'm not dead!" she cried, exasperated.

"But I—."

" _Tried_." Theila groaned. "You ruined the moment! It was so perfect!"

Her aggravation, for some reason, was quite effective at sobering him up from his exhaustion and fatigue. "Och, wench, quit yelling at me," he grumbled. "I just came back from the dead."

"So did I, but you don't see me with a line of spittle hanging out of my mouth."

Undevar pushed himself up into a sitting position. "God _damn_ cheeky wench!"

"If you call me 'wench' one more time—!"

"Wench!"

She suddenly pushed him down. Undevar felt his back hit the mattress. "I saved your half-naked ass from dying of hypothermia," she hissed in his ear. "So if you keep running your mouth like that, Freya's hounds are going to be the least of your worries. You got th—?" Quickly, she drew away, crying. "A-are you—?"

Aroused. It wasn't his proudest moment. Undevar cleared his throat and saw Theila's brow crash down angrily over her eyes. "You… you're disgusting!"

"Pot calling the kettle black!" Undevar snapped back.

"What? I'm not—!"

"Dilated pupils!" Undevar interrupted. "Common sign of arousal! Unless it suddenly got dark in the room without me noticing?"

He saw the fighting words die at Theila's lips. She pursed them tightly together before saying, "Well… Well you started it, telling me you love me! Stupid jackass of a bear!" She stood up and marched towards the door.

"Wait, where are—?"

"Sort yourself out!" Theila shot back. "I can't _believe_ I kissed you."

"Theila!"

She stopped at the door. "What?"

"I was bullshitting about the dilated pupils."

The sorceress's face turned bright red in record-breaking time. "I should have left you at that spire," she spat before slamming the door.

* * *

The exhaustion, the delirium, the sheer joy at seeing her alive—once it had all faded, the gravity of the situation began to dawn on Undevar. In the end, he had failed to do what Valdre had told him to do.

And he began to grow scared. Not because he had lost his chance at being grandmaster. It was because Undevar knew Valdre didn't accept failure. 'I can't go home,' Undevar realized. 'Everything… I've lost everything.' It was all he had ever known. It was the one thing that kept a nomadic, unloved witcher sane—home.

Theila noticed his distress. At first, he didn't want to talk about it. Then he finally confessed when it became too much for him to bear alone.

"Undevar, what did you ever see in the keep?" she asked him. "It was full of witchers trying to turn you into a man you're not."

"It's where I grew up!" Undevar retorted defensively. "It's where everyone I know is! Without it, I'm just…" He turned back towards the sea, looking out into the direction where it was. "A witcher out on the Path. And being on the Path gets tiring."

He felt Theila lean against him. For an instant, he felt himself zapped back into the lively, noisy tavern. "I guess I'd feel the same way if I could never go back to Vintrica," she said. "I'm sorry. I wish things could have been different."

It had been a choice between Theila and the guild—choosing which one to keep. Undevar recalled his own words, the ones never spoken. _I want this_. Home didn't have to be the place he was raised in.

"There are some Bear witchers," he said slowly. He felt Theila lift her head, "who forsook the guild at the first chance and never went back. I used to think they were fools, traitors. I thought they were weak."

"And what about now?"

"They saw the writing on the wall while I was still blind to it." Undevar broke his eyes away from the horizon. "I think it's time to find a new home."

"Where?" There was a suggestion in her voice.

Undevar looked away. "Don't know," he grunted. He knew what Theila was asking, but was hesitant. "Heard one was living with the dwarves in their mountains. Reckon I'll miss the sunlight, but the drink they've got is worth giving the sun up for."

"I see… yes, that sounds like a good idea." He didn't miss the disappointment in her voice.

He couldn't understand it himself. One moment, he was in love with her, and the next he was avoiding her like the plague. There was something he was still afraid of. Undevar had a sneaking suspicion of what it was, but to acknowledge it would be to legitimize it.

"Well," Theila ventured quietly, "if you're ever in the north, feel free to stop by Vintrica. Say hi. And if you see any red dragons, leave them alone."

"I'm not some mindless killer."

He felt Theila lean against him again. "Could have fooled me."

It was midsummer when Theila and Niyette packed up their things and left the lodge for the last time. Theila had offered to take Undevar to Vengerberg so he could make his way to the Mahakam Mountains where the dwarven stronghold was.

Aside from what he could secure to his horse, Undevar had nothing else to take with him. That left him waiting while the sorceresses packed up their belongings. He found himself wandering down to the shore as he waited. He watched the sunlight glitter over the dancing waves. Mahakam was far from any body of water.

It wouldn't be the sunlight he'd miss. It would be the ocean and her waves—like a mother's voice, it was a sound Undevar had grown up listening to. With a sigh, the witcher lowered himself onto the shore. The tide swelled up around him, pooling gently against his legs. His armor and boots were wetted, but he didn't mind.

Something glistened under the surface a small distance out into the water. Undevar watched as the golden form drew closer to him. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he had last seen her.

She came right up to him. In the shallow water, she kept her tail. At first, the witcher and the mermaid regarded each other in silence.

Then, Iníomara said, "He is a different man, this witcher."

Undevar shook his head, lowering his eyes. "I've lost so much."

"Before you can take proper hold of your life, you first need to empty your hands."

"Hm," Undevar grunted. "Rather be filling them with a tankard."

"Julian let go of everything he knew too," Iníomara said. "Sacrificing one world for another—it is normal to be frightened. But you and he do so for the same reason."

"You know how much I hate being compared with that runt, Iní." Undevar glanced up. "How is he?"

"Happy," the mermaid answered. "He is learning much about himself—without having others tell it to him." She leaned forward. "Something troubles you deeply, witcher. There is more to your fear than that of the unknown."

She was just as bad as Theila with her mind-reading abilities. Undevar looked away, unable to look Iníomara in the eyes as he said, "It's her."

"What of the sorceress?"

"I'm only like this because of her. And yet I can't push her away. It's like two sides of me are trying to pull in their own ways, and it's tearing me in half."

"And why are you so conflicted?"

"I'm old. I don't like change."

"I know of creatures even older that embrace change."

Undevar scoffed, looking back at Iníomara. "Don't start with me, mermaid." Then, his voice grew low. "Is this okay, what's happening? Everything I ever knew, I ever valued… I'd be forsaking it all."

"Witcher," Iníomara said, "when you leave Skellige, when your feet take you to uncharted territories both of land and of mind, I want you to remember what I tell you. Remember this one thing, and remember it always. Let the ones you love change you."

* * *

 _I feel your thunder, pouring like rain_

 _Down on the mountains of all my mistakes_

 _Rolling like rivers, running with grace_

 _Into the ocean of your embrace_

 _Your hand on my side, leading the way_

 _Ten thousand horses couldn't pull me away_

"Face to Face"—Mat Kearney


	63. Chapter 63 - To Mahakam

_**A/N: I must protect Sarah Connor.**_

* * *

Vengerberg was strange, alien. It was a _city_ , and Undevar had never seen one before. Back at home, even the tallest keeps still offered a clear view of the surrounding landscape—the sea and the snow-capped mountains fading into the distance like waiting giants, with trees growing up along their wide slopes.

But the buildings here were like walls. They reached up and obstructed the sky. Even standing at the city border, the view beyond was hard to see. Not that there was much to see. The land was so… flat. And it was all the same color, some kind of unimpressive green-beige. The people here sounded strange—their accents were different than he was accustomed to, and Undevar didn't like them. The sound was like tree bark to his ears.

The streets were crowded, but there was a pocket of emptiness wherever he walked. People gave him wide berth. Children stopped playing and stared before they were pulled close to their mothers. One even screamed at the sight of him. 'Little shite,' Undevar thought grouchily as he trekked on.

He had to get out of here. This place was stifling. Undevar felt as though Vengerberg had the very real chance of choking him to death just by standing in it.

At the city's western gates, the guards stopped him. A man hidden behind a metal helmet asked him for the purpose of his departure, and Undevar looked at him as though he was growing an extra head out of his chest. "To get out."

"Beggin' your pardon, witcher sir. It's just protocol given to us by Lord Venger. When folks leave the city, he wants to know why. Although…" Through the slits in his helmet, the guard regarded Undevar. "Bettin' you're not from around. Or from Aedirn at all. Never heard someone speak with your tongue… or dress like that."

Wow, what a sleuth. "Nay," Undevar corroborated. "Not a local."

"Where're ya from?"

Undevar hesitated. The more inland the people, the likely the more twisted their views on Skelligers were—having nothing else but hearsay to go on. And folks had a knack for exaggerating their stories until what came out at the end of the line was a mockery of the truth.

"Coast," Undevar answered vaguely.

"That explains the furs," the guard replied. "Had an old friend used to live by a lake—says the water chills the air come wintertime something awful." At the sound of wheels churning on the road, the guard leaned to peer past Undevar. There was a cart coming up from behind. "Well, biddin' ya safe travels, witcher sir. Though you prolly travel safer than most folks, reckon." The helmet glinted in the sunlight as the guard gave a nod, and Undevar nudged his horse forward.

The Mahakam Mountains were a little less than half a day's travel west of Vengerberg, given sparse breaks. The lands were so barren. There was so much space, and nothing to occupy it. Humans and wildlife back at Skellige couldn't exactly be choosy about where to settle, given the wholly uneven distribution between sea and livable ground. Undevar couldn't help but feel like he was in some sort of limbo as he traveled. He was accustomed to the natural law of, given enough steps taken, one would eventually hit the shore. But hours had passed and still there was only more land in front of him.

Eventually, the Mahakam range came to view. Even these were different—not a single speck of snow dotted the mountains' dark brown faces. Wisps of clouds hung near the peaks like discarded chimney smoke.

The mountains were still far off in the distance when Undevar stopped. His horse's breathing was starting to grow ragged, and flecks of sweat dampened its coat. With all of Undevar's packing, plus additional supplies, on its back, the beast's stamina was severely stunted.

By that time, they had reached a small grove. The thin canopy offered adequate shelter from the late day sun. Undevar freed the horse from its pack and saddle. The stallion gave an appreciative shake of its head before wandering a few feet away to graze. Undevar unraveled his bedroll and laid on top of it, watching the sun turn the leaves above him transparent. He bent his arms and tucked his hands underneath his head.

As he listened to the ruffling of the canopy and the gentle huffs of the horse, his mind returned to her. Undevar couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if he'd agreed to go to Vintrica with her. Some small, uninvited part of him wished he had.

Forcing himself to go on a tangent, Undevar thought of Vintrica. A palace full of women. And how often did those lovely ladies see visits from men? Surely it would be like stepping onto a shore littered with starved sirens. Only an exceedingly brave man would dare to make that trek, and he wouldn't mind volunteering. Undevar smirked at the thought.

Evidently he had been more tired, and that little lie down had been more relaxing, than he'd expected. Undevar didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he woke back up to the still night air.

Even through the darkness, his eyes soaked in the scarce moonlight to see every leaf that danced lazily above him. But Undevar barely saw them, his attention focused on the medallion quivering against his collarbones. He listened and heard soft scuffling near him. Voices peeped—too squeaky to belong to a human, even a child. Soft giggles, and what Undevar could only be assumed to be spoken language. Perhaps it was Common, but their voices were far too soft and squeaky for him to understand them.

He reminded himself of where his swords lay as he continued to listen. Whatever was there wasn't getting any closer, though it was definitely watching him. Undevar sifted through his mental bestiary. Whatever he was hearing definitely wasn't native to Skellige.

Undevar turned his head only a degree to listen better. The things nearby still noticed. He heard their shrill voices grow louder in alarm. Quick scuffling told him they had fled.

When he was finally alone, Undevar sat up. His eyes fell onto his saddlebag, which was open. His flask had been pulled out and uncorked. The grass glistened from the spilled contents. Undevar let out a loud huff. "Not fucking again!" he growled. He got up from the bedroll. The air was saturated with the smell of alcohol. Above the smell of mead lingered the scent of whatever had been there. Undevar took a quick whiff.

Yup. He had no idea what creatures had been huddled here moments earlier. It was definitely something unique to the Continent.

'Didn't sound like godlings,' Undevar thought, his eyes darting back to the spilled flask. 'Doesn't smell like one either. But these were small creatures… that, or very, _very_ soft-footed.' He paused and strained his ears. Whatever had been here was long gone. Grumbling, Undevar lay back down on the bedroll. Even if those things did decide to come back, he'd show them. Nobody touched his fucking mead.

Morning light was filtering down through the canopy of the grove when Undevar awoke. He got up and groggily began to pack his things. After securing the bedroll into a tight bundle, Undevar gave a curt whistle for his horse. He heard the steady beat of hooves answer him. But as the horse approached, it suddenly stopped. Undevar glanced up.

The beast was standing a few feet away. It was still, as though listening to something. Then, with a curt snort, it pinned its ears back and backed away. "What's gotten into you?" Undevar asked. "Aren't anything ar—." His words were cut short. Undevar realized he had made a mistake.

He shouldn't have fallen asleep. Really, really shouldn't have.

A witcher without his medallion was like a knight without his banner. A king without his crown. It wasn't just a tool used to help detect monsters and magic—it was a symbol. Mutations had torn his kind away from the rest of humanity, but their medallions proved a sense of belonging, no matter which creature's head was forged with that enchanted metal.

Undevar's hand flew up to his collar and patted frantically. He felt nothing but his cloak and the armor underneath.

"Fuck… _bleeding fuck_ …" he snarled through gritted teeth. First his home, now his medallion. He was starting to hate everything more and more.

It was those things—whatever had woken him in the night and rifled through his things. They'd taken it. Undevar was sure of it. He still had no idea what they were, but he had their scent to go on. It was still in the air, as strong as ever. Come to think of it, it was kind of strange that the wind hadn't carried the hours-old smell away.

Pack, then track. He wanted his medallion back as soon as earthly possible, but he wasn't going to go anywhere with his things all over the place. Undevar gave another curt whistle and glanced over at his horse. It was still rooted in place, refusing to get any closer. "Oiye, quit it now. Get over here." The beast snorted and stamped a foot.

Undevar caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His head whipped down and his stare focused on his saddlebag. He could have sworn to Freya it had given a little jump. Then he heard it—a small, squeaky sound. Almost like the chitter of a squirrel, but with an actual voice. The leather shifted again.

Whatever it was, it was small and Undevar wasn't scared of it. Without hesitating, he grabbed the bag and lifted the flap to look in.

A tiny, humanoid face stared up at him, and as soon as their eyes connected it gave what was supposed to be a shriek in its tiny voice. Undevar himself cried out, "What the _hell?"_

The creature inside was tiny with puffy cheeks, a long nose, and a bulbous belly. Before Undevar could get a better look at it, the creature suddenly reached up and yanked the flap back down like an irate old woman slamming shut her window.

"Wee fucker! Goddamn thief!" Undevar pulled the flap back up, but the tiny thing had retreated deep within the pouch. He reached in, sifting through the pack's other contents. Suddenly, he felt a sharp jab on his hand between his thumb and forefinger. Undevar tugged his hand back out. The pisshead had bitten him! Straight through the glove, too! At first he had been vexed, but now he was mad.

Undevar turned the saddlebag over and shook it out. Ingredients, wrapped herbs, and nibbled-on rations tumbled out onto the grass. But he could still feel the weight of the creature inside the bag, and no matter how hard he shook it wouldn't come out. The thing was likely clinging on for dear life.

"Swear to _fuck_ the only thing keeping me from stomping on this bag is the mess!" Undevar snapped. "Where's the medallion? Hand it over, or I'll have you for breakfast!"

He heard his horse whinny loudly. Undevar looked up just in time to see it turn and gallop away. A squeaky voice was coming from the trees. It was another one of those things, and this one—this one had his medallion! The chain jangled against itself as the creature gave it a shake. For a moment, all Undevar could do was stare. Had he actually woken up or not? What was wrong with the damn Continent?

Still holding the bag, Undevar rose. As soon as it saw him moving, the creature turned and ran. Undevar threw out Yrden, but the thing was moving so fast that only the edge of the trap caught it before it raced out of range. Muttering a string of curses under his breath, Undevar picked up the pace to keep up with it.

The thing was chittering like mad. Undevar wasn't sure if it was yelling out of fear or was taunting him. Brow furrowed, he watched the creature as it ran, learning its path. Then, he casted another Yrden trap. This one caught the creature in the very center of its snare, slowing it down to almost a standstill.

 _Got you now, you wee piece of—_.

Something tightened around his ankle, and the next thing he knew, Undevar was swung around until he was completely upside down. The quick flip completely erased his senses for a second until they were reoriented.

Undevar heard the creaking of rope. The top of his head dangled just a few inches above the grass. Goddamn it, nobody told him these mites were this sophisticated! With a strained grunt, Undevar bent his body up and reached for the rope that had snagged his ankle. Letting out his breath, he fell back.

Suddenly he wasn't alone. They came out from behind tree trunks and beneath the brushes. Undevar twisted around, realizing that they surrounded him in a wide circle that closed in fast. He saw them waving sticks and quickly shielded his face when he felt small rocks bouncing off of him. Then came the jabbing of sticks, and the ones that did manage to touch his head felt only mildly painful.

Shouting out his frustration, Undevar suddenly swatted out an arm. He felt it hit a few, but the gap he made was quickly filled back in. The one holding his medallion was there too, swinging the bear head round like a flail mace.

He didn't know why he didn't just kill them. Even like this, it would be simple—throw out Igni in a circle around them and watch them run around until the flames consumed them. But it didn't feel right, and Undevar didn't know why. It would be like killing the fawn in that swamp.

 _You are not that man anymore_.

Ignoring the rocks and sticks, Undevar pulled out his dagger. A few of the creatures sensed the danger from the drawn weapon and fled, though most remained. Undevar took a few rapid breaths, and then raised himself back up to the rope. The weight of his armor threatened to pull him back down. Lifting his dagger, Undevar brought the serrated edge to the rope. He dragged it across a few times, seeing a few fibers break apart, before he let go of his breath and dropped back down.

The grass was his ceiling, and these creatures—whatever they were—were defying gravity by walking on it. Suddenly, he saw them turn to look at something. One of them gave a shrill squawk, and they scattered. With them no loner obstructing the view, Undevar saw a pair of feet—normal-sized feet—walking towards him. He dipped his chin down to get a better view of the man they belonged to. It was then he heard the sharp crack of a crossbow. The tension around his ankle suddenly disappeared, and he hit the ground with a short and painful drop.

Undevar groaned as he rolled over onto his front and rose to his knees. The medallion was lying in the grass a short distance away. He was pushing himself onto his feet to get it when the man spoke up.

"Don't move."

Undevar looked up and met the cat-like eyes of another witcher. This one was amazingly young—a pup. His gaze gravitated towards the medallion on the young man's neck. Wolf.

Undevar couldn't help but recall what Valdre had said about the other witcher schools. "Cat's a bunch of slinks. Griffin's a gaggle of wannabe adepts. Never share a drink with a Viper. Manticore—who even bleedin' cares? Wolf's the only other decently respectable school, but their lot's still twigs like all the rest of 'em."

Slowly, Undevar raised his hands up. "Easy there, Wolf. I just want my medallion back—sure you understand."

The witcher hesitated for a moment, and then lowered his crossbow. "Bear," he noted. "Skellige's a long way from here."

"So is Kaer Morhen, and your ears look a little too wet for you to be straying this far." Undevar stood up and plucked his medallion from the ground. "You're a Continent laddie. What were those things?"

"Griggs," the Wolf answered. His armor was styled completely different—probably with that of his school's. It was a bit too thin for Undevar's taste. The boy's dark brown hair was tied back into a short ponytail.

"Griggs? Thought they were fuckin' gnomes or something."

"Gnomes don't technically exist," the Wolf corrected. "Though on the occasion folks spot griggs, they often refer to them as gnomes."

"Someone had his nose stuck in a book growing up," Undevar muttered, sheathing his dagger away. He patted the grass and leaves out of the cracks of his armor.

"If you're a Bear all the way out here… you must be with them, aren't you? Up in the mountains?"

Undevar paused. "Aye. I am."

"What are you doing all the way out here then?"

"What's it to you, runt?" Undevar suddenly snapped. "I got my business and so do you."

The Wolf shrugged. "Fine then." He lifted his fingers to his mouth and whistled. From between the trees, a buckskin horse appeared. Undevar looked out towards the grove and whistled for his own steed. It didn't appear right away.

"I'll wait," the Wolf offered.

"What for?"

"I'm headed towards the mountains too."

"Why?"

"To finish a job." The Wolf patted a small, burlap sack on his belt. The beating of hooves preluded the appearance of Undevar's horse. It came trotting a little less gracefully than the buckskin with the load on its back. Both men lifted themselves onto their saddles and pointed their steeds towards Mahakam.

"You're welcome, by the way," the Wolf said as they rode.

"For what?"

"What else? Seems like you were having a right tough time with the griggs."

Undevar grunted. "Could have gotten meself out."

"There's just this big gaping hole in you Skelligers where your manners ought to be, isn't there?"

"Manners don't keep you alive, runt."

"You've clearly never dealt with aristocracy."

The dwarven stronghold within the Mahakam Mountain range could be accessed through various paths that started from the ground and wrapped around the mountains, having been carved by its founders. In the beginning, the budding stronghold realized its need for outside interference to grow. Thus several paths, like veins, were constructed to let in supplies. Shortly after, dwarven stubbornness kicked in and Mahakam quickly became self-sustaining. But that left the problem of several ways the outside world could get into the mountains. However, the solution had been simple—negligence. Only a select few mountain passages were constantly maintained while the rest were left to wither. The crumbling paths provided their own perilous protection. Only a handful provided safe passing to the stronghold, and the dwarves had constructed impenetrable metal gates to guard them.

It was on one of these paths that the two witchers traveled up. As they climbed higher up the gentle slopes, the rail-free, open edge grew into steeper and steeper drops. Undevar gazed towards the horizon as their horses continued along the path. That beige-green stretched onwards into the distance, occasionally interrupted by patches of forests and ponds that glimmered in the midday sun.

And speaking of the sun, it was _hot_. The air had grown much hotter than Undevar knew it could become. Summer in Skellige was relieved by the cool water and ceaseless winds. Here, the air was still and the dry ground baked like bread. It wasn't long before the skin under his furs and cloak grew clammy, and beads of sweat were already lining his temple and forehead.

After a few more minutes of silence, the witcher finally spoke up about it—no doubt picking up the smell of his perspiring companion. "If you keep dressing like you're expecting a blizzard, you're not going to last very long up here. The Mahakam Mountains scarcely see even a speck of snow, even up on the peaks."

"I'm fine," Undevar muttered, stubborn despite his better judgment. Although he had alienated himself from his guild, he was still a Bear—a Skelliger, and he wasn't going to strip off the garments that spoke his identity just because the sun was being a bitch.

"If you say so," the young witcher said. "We've still got 20 minutes before we reach the main gate—maybe even 30."

"I'm fine," Undevar repeated. "I've got a thing or two to say about the cookie wafers you call armor, but how 'bout we agree to keep to our own?"

"Alright." The reply came as almost a sigh. Undevar looked out towards the distance again, dragging a hand across his damp face. As they came around a bend, the sun disappeared behind the mountain. It was astounding how much cooler it was just under the shade, but Undevar was still sweating like a stuffed pig.

"I've heard a few things," he suddenly heard the witcher speak up, "about your grandmaster. From my own." There was a pause for Undevar to fill in the blank, and he didn't like that.

"And?"

"Why else would I be asking? Are they true?"

Undevar gave a huff. "I've spent some time with sorceresses but I haven't adopted their ability to pry. Spit it out—don't try to coax me like I'm some wild mare."

"I've heard he kills his own," the witcher finally said. "For fun. Almost like he makes a game out of it. A total stranger to empathy and even human decency." He shot a glance at Undevar, watching carefully for the Bear's reaction to the dicey description of his grandmaster.

Undevar was silent as he mulled. It was a horrid portrayal—and worse even was the fact that it was all true. "What can I say, Wolf," he replied quietly, "that hasn't already been said?"

"How could you have ever accepted someone like that as your grandmaster?"

"Consider, then, what the other choice would have been if not acceptance," Undevar shot back. "Sometimes a sense of righteousness isn't enough."

The Wolf didn't answer. Instead, he looked ahead and announced, "We're here." Their horses came around another sharp bend in the path, giving way to the view of Mahakam.

The dwarven fortress was a testament against those who believed dwarves to be nothing more than rowdy mountaineers and alcoholic weapon smiths—lacking aesthetics and finesse. Stretching high in tandem with mountain peaks were tall structures made of beige stone. Angular architecture both rose from and was embedded within the rock, looking as natural as formations yet retaining the sophistication of civilization. Integrated into the fortress were streams of brilliant gold and blue crystal. They weaved across the stone in decorative patterns.

The witchers' path dipped down towards the small valley where the stronghold's main structure was located. Ahead was a wide gate, far too tall to climb. It had been placed right where two mountains converged like walls. Above each end of the gate were two watch towers, and Undevar could see movement in their nests.

From one came the shouted demand for why the witchers had come. Though Undevar could see no immediate threat, something told him that they could have been dead on the spot had the dwarves wanted it then and there.

Why had they come? Undevar himself didn't have the answer—in hindsight, he should have thought of something on the way there. Luckily, his companion came with a reply.

"I've come with the ore Hinks asked me to fetch," the Wolf answered.

"Ah, the witcher," Undevar heard the mutter from up in the tower, though the dwarf himself had no idea the two below could hear him just as clearly. "Aye, Hinks did say—aye, that's him." Then, in a shout, the dwarf watchman said, "And what of him? Don't recognize his gob."

"He's with me."

The dwarven watchman mumbled to himself again. "Didn't know it would take two witchers to grab a bit of meteorite. Must have landed smack dab in a nest of nasties." Louder, he said, "Come on in. I'll send someone to let Hinks know you're back."

The entire gate itself didn't move—rather, a smaller door embedded into the gate opened for the two witchers. Both spurred their horses towards it. Undevar found himself having to duck his head down as he passed through.

There was a smaller, secondary wall behind the gate. Distanced across it were tall, sentinel statues of dwarven soldiers, their hands regally rested atop wide double-bitted axes. Each one had a large, brightly colored gem in the crown of its helmet. Undevar was in the middle of wondering whether getting gems that large required finding ones that were giant to begin with or were somehow made by combining several medium-sized ones together when the grating of the gate entrance interrupted him. He looked over and saw that the Wolf had dismounted from his steed and was leading it through. Undevar did the same, following closely behind.

Beyond was a large courtyard-like space that gave way to streets and buildings. A small portion of the dwarven capital sat in open air—when the architects of late hit mountain, they didn't stop. Building faces emerged from their sides like carved reliefs, and it astounded Undevar to imagine the entire mountain carved hollow to make way for Mahakam.

A dwarf came up to them. A young'un, Undevar realized—he'd hardly a beard on him. "'Scuse, witcher sirs, comin' here to grab ya mounts. Be in them stables if ya ever need 'em." He gestured over to a stable by the wall as the Wolf handed him the reins to his horse. Undevar looked over. The small stable housed an assortment of ponies. It seemed their horses would be largest beasts there.

"Sir?"

Undevar looked down and saw the dwarf holding an expecting hand out. He quickly offered the reins and watched the dwarf lead the two horses away. The Wolf motioned for Undevar to follow with a jerk of his head and walked towards the center of the courtyard. Spaced out in a wide circle were tall metal posts with hollowed crystals at each tip. As there was still daylight out, the lamps were unlit.

"So where is this Hi—?" Undevar's question was cut off with a loud bellow.

 _"Haw, is that you? Didn't think I'd see your damn gob 'round here again!"_

Undevar's head jerked up at the thunderous cry. Beside him, the Wolf groaned quietly to himself. Heavy footsteps rushed up to them in alarming speed. A giant of a man—well over a head taller than Undevar—suddenly appeared. In an instant, he had the Wolf up off the ground in a bear hug that should have cracked bones.

"Lookee here!" the man boomed, a dinner plate hand coming up to messily ruffle the Wolf's dark hair. "Our wee lassie Vesemir's come home safe and sound! We missed you—ya wee sweet bairn!"

"Ga—Ga…" the Wolf squeezed out through a strained voice. "Stop."

"Aw, but this is how we greet each other in Skellige all the time!" He dropped Vesemir. The Wolf only just was able to catch himself on his feet and planted a hand on a nearby lamppost for support.

"Remind me to stay the hell away from Skellige then," he wheezed.

"You're too soft, Vesemir! Soft like a wench! Only difference is you got an outie down there instead, and a miserable excuse for pair of paps. And what about this one? He a lassie like you?" Turning to Undevar, the giant man said to him, "Did wee Vesemir drag you all the way from Kaer—?"

His words were cut short. The massive Bear witcher regarded Undevar for a second longer, and then a look that made Undevar's heart skip a beat crossed his face.

The next thing he knew, Undevar's feet had lifted off the ground. He heard the crystal at the top of the lamppost wobble as his back slammed into the post.

"Now," the Bear witcher snarled. "What is Valdre's _lap dog_ doin' all the way out here? Did he send you for us? Wanted to get rid of his 'embarrassments'?"

Undevar would've answered with the truth—that he had come for no such reason—but he was finding it rather hard to get words out with the Bear's knuckles jammed right up against his throat.

"Galon, wait! Lay off!" Vesemir cried.

"You don't know the story behind this _cocksucker_ ," Galon snapped, pressing even tighter into Undevar's larynx. The sight of the Bear's furious face was becoming interrupted with popping lights. "You remember all the things I told you about our grandmaster? Well this one was right at his heels at all times. He's a murderer! Monster, just like Valdre! 'Least today I can make sure there's only one of you left around."

A hand suddenly gripped Galon's arm and miraculously ripped it away. Undevar gasped, and the popping lights slowly faded.

"Galon, calm the fuck down!" a new voice barked. This one, too, was Skelligan.

The Bear named Galon dropped Undevar and turned to whoever had pulled him back. "Why're you defending this shithead?" he demanded.

The second Bear was around Undevar's height with rich auburn hair that came down to his shoulders. "I'm itchin' to clobber him as much as you are," the Bear said. Undevar was starting to wish he'd stayed in Vengerberg. "But I'm not going to stand around and let you break a neck in the middle of the plaza, for fuck's sake."

"You sayin' we should drag him to an empty corner and then break his neck or something? What difference does it make?"

The auburn-haired Bear jerked his head to the side. Both Galon and Undevar followed the direction to see that a small crowd had gathered to watch the confrontation. Children at the front were being pulled away by their anxious mothers. In a low voice, the Bear said to Galon, "Took a long time for them to accept the likes of us, Galon, and I'm not about to let you fuck that up."

Galon turned his fuming eyes back on Undevar, and then looked back at the crowd. "Goddamn it, Brimir," he growled. He turned to Undevar again, this time to spit on his boots. "Skitter off if you know what's best for you," he snapped. "Go back to Skellige and crawl into Valdre's lap where you belong."

"Can't," Undevar finally spoke as the two Bears were walking away. "Valdre doesn't want me anymore."

"Poor bairn," Galon said in a bitter, taunting voice. "Want me to hold a hanky up to your nose while you blow?" But the second one, Brimir, stopped at Undevar's words. He turned.

"What do you mean by that?"

"What does it _matter_ , Brimir?"

"Had it been any other Bear, it wouldn't have," Brimir answered. At that point, Galon hesitated. "Well, Undevar?"

The opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of all that was left of his brethren should have been something Undevar leapt to. But he remembered the very reason he had defied Valdre and suddenly became reluctant. Curses, it was stupid how sheepish he became.

"I…"

"You didn't challenge him, did you?" Galon suddenly asked. "You're still too much of a spring lamb to be grandmaster."

"Nay, I'm not that daft," Undevar said. Going up against Valdre at this point would be straight up suicide. "I… couldn't do something he asked me to do."

"What, didn't live up to his expectations?" Brimir said. "Not one bit surprised at that."

"Couldn't bring myself to do it."

"Couldn't _bring_ yourself?" Galon repeated. "I doubt morals had anything to do with it. What did he tell you to do—shit yourself?"

Did he dare admit it? There was no point. Something told Undevar they'd never believe him if they did. But before Undevar could even bring himself to a decision, someone called out, "Took you long enough to bring that meteorite back, damn witcher!" A dwarf was tromping over, as stout as he was snappish. The gold rings in his gray beard clanged quietly, jostled by his stormy gait.

Vesemir turned towards the dwarf. "And you're very welcome, Hinks," he replied, unhooking the heavy pouch from his belt and holding it out. Hinks swiped it out of the witcher's hand and gave the bag an appreciative jolt.

"Good bit in here," the dwarf remarked.

"Don't forget our agreement," Vesemir said, crossing his arms. "Some of that goes into my fortifications."

"Aye, I know, I know. I wasn't bleedin' born yesterday." Hinks turned towards Undevar. "Aw _fuck_ , another one. What're they putting in your feed to make you Bears so damn massive?"

"I told you," Galon said, "it's grou—."

"If you say ground dwarf bones one more time, I'll take the largest ore in this sack and shove it up your bumhole."

"You're the perfect height for it, too," Vesemir joked.

As they spoke, they had turned away from Undevar and were heading across the courtyard. It was as if they'd forgotten the third Bear even existed, though Vesemir did afford Undevar one last glance over his shoulder.

'Should have gone to Vintrica,' Undevar thought to himself for the hundredth time. 'Wouldn't have gotten this kind of reception from a palace full of lasses.' It seems he wasn't going to find a home here either. Well, that didn't matter—the season was still young and a witcher never settled down while the wind was still warm.

Undevar wandered back to the inner wall and climbed the spiraling staircase of one of its towers. From the top, he could see just above the main gate and the pathway beyond. The mountains were positioned just perfectly so that Undevar could see between them and catch a peek of the horizon. But there was no ocean—just land. Just land.

There was no one here that wanted him here. Just more people disappointed in what he'd done. 'Once I wouldn't have given a horse's ass about their approval,' Undevar thought. 'What's happened to me?'

Slow steps behind him caught his attention. Undevar turned and saw that a dwarven guard had walked into the tower, passing by on their patrol. The guard regarded Undevar silently through the visor and gave a solemn nod in acknowledgement. Undevar turned back towards the horizon.

"How far are the Dragon Mountains from here?" he asked.

"Dragon Mountains?" the guard echoed. Undevar realized the guard was a woman—her voice was characteristically gruff, but just less so than her male counterparts.

"Aye," Undevar said. "Not sure where exactly it is—not very good out mapping out the Continent in my head. I just know it's somewhere north."

" _Far_ north," the guard corrected. "And not just that. Northwest, more like. Going diagonal takes a hell of a lot longer, and you'll be crossing a few borders too." Undevar sighed. The guard continued, "Why're you asking about the Dragon Mountains anyway? It got dwarves up there too?"

"Nay. I've a… friend up there."

"Don't rightly expect any dwarven folk to settle up in a place called the Dragon Mountains anyhow," the guard continued. "Sounds chock full of the beasts. We've had a few here too—seems they're attracted to ranges. I heard say the king once fretted that a dragon might come burnin' Mahakam to ash because of all the gold we've got stocked up."

"It's only stereotype that dragons are drawn to gold," Undevar dismissed. "A claim born and bred in fairytales."

"Hmm," the guard grunted. She stuck the pommel of her pike down onto the ground. "Don't believe it either—I've not seen a dragon come near the keep. Heard there was one about a century or so ago, but I'm not sure what happened. Wasn't even a bean in me mum's belly at that time." She turned towards Undevar. "Say, witcher, I've been meaning to ask—what's the deal with this migration of yours?"

"Migration?"

"Aye—seen a lot of you Skelligan witchers coming to our mountains. Mahakam and the isles are a journey and a half apart. What brought you here?"

Undevar kept his eyes forward. Up ahead, the mountains casted a grand shadow over the gate. "Change," he answered.

* * *

Up until winter, Undevar ventured out to ply his trade. He stayed relatively close to Mahakam, not daring to trek further during this shortened season. Continentals, he found, disliked witchers just as much as Skelligers did. Maybe even more. When they spotted his cat eyes, those without monster troubles steered clear of him. When they heard his accent, they hated him.

Then, when the air grew cold, he turned around and headed back to the mountains. As much as Undevar preferred solitude to the awkward bitterness, he preferred the shelter of the dwarven stronghold from the cold winter winds to trying to find his own. But when he arrived back at Mahakam, someone was there waiting for him.

Judging by the disruptive presence he could feel almost immediately as he returned to the mountains, Undevar could tell it was a woman. Indeed, she was in the center of attention amidst Galon, Brimir, and a few dwarven men. But when he came in, her eyes immediately turned to him.

He stayed silent, mostly because he refused to voice his relief. But the sorceress's quickly stolen attention wasn't lost on the others. "You know him?" Galon asked.

"Of course," Theila answered. "He's why I came." She gave a polite smile to the startled faces and stood, thanking them for keeping her company while she waited. Stepping over to Undevar, she said, "Let's step aside. I've always had a penchant for mountain air." He followed her to a small balcony that overlooked the west side of Mahakam. Undevar shot Theila a side-glance, watching her walk up and lean lightly against the balcony edge. "I hope you don't mind," she said softly.

Well, his first few days on the Continent had been rather rocky, and he did kind of mind. But Undevar debated whether he should tell that to the sorceress or not. But while he was still stewing it over, Theila continued.

"I just wanted to make sure you were acclimating alright."

Oh, she meant _that_. "Nay," Undevar blurted out just as Theila was muttering, "I know we should probably just stay our separate wa—." She turned towards him, and Undevar met her eyes.

"Ah," Theila said softly. She looked down at her hand resting atop the stone railing. "The other witchers here—while I was talking to them, they had some… well, choicy things to say about you."

"I know," Undevar replied. "My first day here, just about had my neck snapped." Hated here and there. It was just bleeding perfect.

"I said some things in your favor. Didn't reveal too much in case you didn't want me to," Theila said. "But I don't think they wanted to hear it. The nods were out of politeness and chivalry, I'm sure. Have you… ever tried setting things straight with them?"

"You're mighty grand thinking Bears settle things with talk," Undevar replied.

"And you're mighty grand thinking things should stay the way they are," Theila rebutted. "Come on." She stuck a hand out towards him. Undevar couldn't help but hesitate for a second before taking it. He felt her pull him back into the stone walls. Undevar almost wanted to tug his hand away when they stepped into the hall. He knew they saw their hands clasping as the two of them sat back at the bench.

Brimir turned back to Galon and held an expecting hand out. "Pay up, mate." The massive witcher muttered a curse under his breath as he reached down and tossed a few ducats on the table.

"What was the bet for?" Theila asked casually.

"That the two of you were an item," Brimir answered. Undevar could practically feel the subtle heat radiate from the sorceress.

"Oh."

"Do you have any idea who this guy is?" Galon demanded.

"Mate," Brimir said to him, "She's a sorceress—I'm sure she knows better than any of us."

"You're right," Theila said. "And I know he's not the man you think he is, Galon. He's not Valdre, nor should he be the surrogate you direct your hatred for your grandmaster towards."

Galon was silent, staring down at the table as he held onto his obstinacy. Instead, Brimir filled the silence. "So how did the two of you come to know each other? More importantly, how did you steal this one from Valdre?"

"She didn't—."

"I didn't do a thing," Theila said. "Undevar broke away by his own choice."

"Mince."

"The thing Valdre asked me to do," Undevar spoke up quietly. "The one thing I couldn't do." He finally looked up. Theila was staring at him as though she were hearing all this for the first time. "Never again—this time I mean it. He's my grandmaster no more for what he tried to make me do to you." Shutting his eyes, Undevar gave a firm shake of his head. "Nay… if I am to be grandmaster, I'll take my title the proper way. Not the coward's way—I'm through with that."

"He promised you the title?" he heard Galon say. Undevar opened his eyes. "In exchange for what? Her life?"

Undevar looked back at Theila. Her gaze hadn't changed.

He suddenly heard Brimir snort. "Really, Undevar, you're 'bout as stupid as you look." Undevar's eyes whipped to him. "You think Valdre would really fork up the grandmaster's title for bounty? Valdre? Mate, what did you think would happen? I'll tell you—if you were fucked up enough to do what he asked, you would have sauntered back to him and his damned stuffed beasts. You would have asked where that title was and gotten a bolt straight between the eyes instead. Think Valdre's going to give up that title, even to you? You're going to have to wrestle it out of his cold fingers, because it don't matter what kind of closeness you two had—he'd sooner kill you."

"I know that now," Undevar replied. "And I know that I should've known long ago."

"Well, considering how we were brought up…" Brimir looked over at Galon. The Bear returned his gaze. "It's a miracle we're not _all_ psychopaths. For those of us who didn't go under, at least we're in paradise. Or as close to paradise as us freaks can get." Brimir suddenly shoved his tankard forward. It slid across the table. Undevar quickly stopped it as it skirted in front of him, splashing mead over its rim. Brimir lifted his hand and gestured.

Classic dwarven hospitality had a full tankard immediately appear in front of Brimir. "Let's leave the hate to Valdre," he said.

"Aye, cheers mate," Galon chimed in. He lifted his own flagon. "To freaks, not psychopaths."

"I'll damn sure drink to that," Undevar said, bumping his tankard against theirs.

"We're Skelligers, Undevar. We'll damn sure drink to anything."

Undevar laughed. Theila leaned against him.

* * *

' _Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone_

 _Is where you go when you're alone_

 _Is where you go to rest your bones_

 _It's not just where you lay your head_

 _It's not just where you make your bed_

 _As long as we're together_

 _Does it matter where we go home?_

"Home"—Gabrielle Aplin


	64. Chapter 64 - The Hidden Duke

_**A/N: Something something Terminator joke.**_

* * *

It was nearly summer in the year 740. Undevar had long forgotten the exact day of his birth, but he knew it was some time between spring and summer. So when the trees stopped sprouting fuzzy, youthful leaves, the calves and foals no longer wobbled on their spindly legs, and the air went from warm to hot, Undevar knew he had made it through another year. And had it not been for his odd habit of logging in his journal, his age would have surely been lost on him. It was, after all, a trivial number to a witcher. More of a countdown than anything else.

For every year, Undevar flipped to a certain page and drew a line—a simple, straight line. Each line was connected to others. Groups of ten lines formed a ten-pointed star, signifying a decade. When summer rolled around in 740, and Undevar drew another line, his eyes skimmed over the rest of the page. There were seven fully formed stars. This year added the second line of the one that would be the eighth.

He reached up and wearily rubbed an eye. Fuck him, he was getting old. Had it not been for the mutagens, time would have surely reduced him to dust by now.

Not that he looked his age. Undevar may have carried the weight of seven decades in his mind, but his reflection told him he looked a man that was only just reaching the latter half of his 30's. Maybe that was why the apprentice adepts, with their round, youthful faces and soft pink cheeks, would frequently steal excited glimpses of him from around the corners.

Ah, Vintrica. It had taken a few more years for him to agree to come and Theila to take him. To be honest, Undevar should have known that his ignorant preconception of the place was far from the truth. And, admittedly, he'd let his male fantasies run a little too wild. Vintrica wasn't an ivory palace where water streamed down from the ceilings into crystal clear pools. It wasn't in these pools where women in lacey lingerie splashed at one another and giggled.

The women here weren't just sorceresses. They were scholars, teachers, advisors. Some had centuries' worth of knowledge and others could utter spells that could reduce men to ash. Come to think of it, Undevar wondered why these sorceresses simply didn't just try to overthrow nations and sit in the thrones themselves. Then again, he reminded himself that not every guild was as insane as his.

And instead of lingerie, they wore dresses and breeches; heels and boots alike. No matter what the style, they all had one thing in common—luxury. Be it a low-cut gown or conservative vest, they were all made of material that looked as though they were carted or shipped in from miles away.

The words Undevar heard them throw around were big. It wasn't that he didn't understand them. It was just that people didn't speak like that at home because there was no need to. And there was an Aen Seidhe sorceress he occasionally saw who spoke exclusively in Elder—something Undevar had never really bothered brushing up on.

There'd been a reason he finally come to Vintrica. The headmistress had expressed the need for a witcher, one that would help accompany one of them on an important task. And when Undevar had heard which sorceress would be going, he'd insisted on being that witcher.

"Gloria is going to be surprised when she finds out you're a Bear," Theila had told him. "She's likely expecting a Griffin. Vintrica has a very close relationship with that school, given their strong adept background." Undevar remembered the way she had sheepishly hesitated before adding, "But I don't want a Griffin with me."

She was with the headmistress now, being briefed on what exactly the task was. Apparently the full scope of the mission was confidential, even to the witcher who was embarking on that very job. Theila had told him she would fill him in on what details she would be allowed to give later. All Undevar wanted to know was what his role in this would be. That, and exactly what kind of danger were the sorceresses thrusting the two of them into.

While he waited, Undevar found the rooftop and wandered boredly through the series of greenhouses there. He could just see the foggy silhouettes of leafy plants and their bulbous fruits from behind the glass as he passed by. Beyond the greenhouses was a narrow bridge that connected two towers.

There was a woman standing at the center of the bridge. She was looking out towards the mountain range. Her hair, a bright, fiery red, was braided in a thick cord down her back. She wore a layered, mahogany cloak and a thick leather belt. The woman gave no sign of acknowledgment as Undevar came up to her. Even when nothing about her seemed out of the ordinary, he could tell there was something unique about her.

Finally, when he had stopped next to her, the woman turned her head to look at him. Undevar was shocked to find a pair of eyes mirrored to his own staring at him. But where his irises were amber, hers were an electric shade of gold. For a wild moment, Undevar wondered whether the witchers of the Continent had found a way to add women to their ranks. But quickly, logic quieted that idea. She had none of the telltale scents of a witcher—no bitter, spicy potions or heavy, clotting oils. And yet she didn't smell like a perfumed sorceress either.

"The witcher from Skellige," the woman said. Her voice was deep.

"And you are?"

"Rhudda."

"And from where do you hail?"

"I was born here," the woman answered simply, looking back out at the mountains.

Here? "You mean Lan Exet—?" Undevar first felt the medallion on his breastbone rumble, and then felt the air do the same. He glanced up just in time to see the sun become blotted out by a large, dark figure. Undevar spied the silhouette of outstretched wings, and then covered his eyes just as the figure passed the sun. The woman, calm as ever unlike her companion, watched the colossal red dragon land on the side of the tower at the end of the bridge. Its wings flared out and flapped, pushing strong gales over Undevar, as the dragon balanced itself. Then, to the witcher's shock, the dragon began to crawl towards the bridge. There was no way this toothpick structure was going to support that beast.

But as it moved, Undevar realized that it was changing—literally, physically changing. Its body shrunk as it descended down towards the bridge until it was the size of a man. And, in fact, there _was_ a man in place of where the dragon once was. He wore a cloak, also mahogany. And… Undevar wondered if it was a trick of the sunlight, but… was the man's skin red?

As he made his way down the bridge towards them, Rhudda turned back to Undevar. "You'll have to forgive my brother," she said casually. "What were you saying before Pascal interrupted you?"

Bewildered, Undevar said, "You're a dragon?"

"You couldn't tell?" Without giving Undevar a chance to answer, Rhudda continued, "Although, I don't think the witchers of Skellige have much experience with dragons. I only know of one who dwells near the isles—Gwyliwr, a very ancient one. She is even older than Grandfather, the oldest dragon I know."

The other dragon, Pascal as he had been called, was coming up on them. Undevar realized his skin _was_ in fact red. Although his body had adopted the overall shape of a human, it seemed he retained much of his dragon-like appearance. He was unlike his sister, whose true form only manifested through her eyes. Rhudda looked as he approached. "I didn't know you frequent here," she remarked with the hint of a sneer. "Is Mother aware?"

Pascal shot her a look of disgust as only a sibling could. He paused when his eyes switched over to Undevar. "Who is this?" he asked. Even his voice sounded like that of a dragon—deep and rumbly.

"Undevar of Tor Bhiethe," Rhudda answered before Undevar could.

"How do you know my name?"

"The witchers of these lands will tell you there is very little a dragon does not know."

"A Skelliger," Pascal noted. "You've traveled far for one without wings." He crossed his arms, letting the girth of his arms finally show through his cloak. Undevar realized Pascal might've been able to give him a run for his money, though it wasn't entirely fair—with one being an ancient, magical being and all. "Funny, you match the description of the witcher that slayed our father."

One day Undevar was finally going to arrive at a new place without feeling awkward shame within the first few hours. _One day_.

"He does, doesn't he?" Rhudda chimed in.

"Er…"

"Relax, Undevar," Pascal said. "I only jest. I harbor no resentment towards you or any witcher. The one that killed our father was only acting as his contract demanded, and you could say our father got what was coming to him."

"That's… rather callous."

"You didn't know him," Rhudda said with a shrug. "But at the very least, he did manage to teach us a valuable lesson—blood ties need not be absolute, and respect is earned, not demanded."

"Aye. I know."

"That's good. Then you know there ought not to be redemption for those who abuse the vulnerable." Rhudda glanced towards the sun, and then said, "Pardon the negative note I've left things on, but there are things I need to see through before the sun sets. If you'll excuse me, I need to be going. Good day to you, Undevar. Brother, dear." She stepped up onto the bridge railing. Undevar watched in silence at the bizarre scene unfolding in front of him as Rhudda suddenly dove gracefully out of sight over the edge of the bridge. There came a thunderous noise like the roaring of wind. Suddenly, from below them, emerged a large, ruby-red dragon that glided from underneath the bridge.

"She does like to make a show," Pascal muttered, watching her fly towards the distant peaks. "You've a question on the tip of your tongue, witcher?"

First sorceresses, then mermaids, and now dragons. If everyone could stop reading his goddamn mind, that would be grand. "You don't look very human. Not like Rhudda." He wondered if a goody-good like Vesemir would have started his sentence with a "pardon the brashness…"

"The ability to assume the form of man is a varying trait among all dragonkind," Pascal. "Some can take on the appearance so flawlessly that even the most seasoned of witchers would never know. Some cannot change at all. Rhudda is close to perfect, but not quite. Between you and I, I think she likes the way her eyes are. She gets a kick out of scaring folk with them. I, on the other hand…" Pascal trailed off, lifting a hand and turning it over. The nails at the ends of his fingers were onyx-black and pointed into short talons. "… Am stuck somewhere in the middle, not quite human and yet not dragon." To prove his point, he let a long, reptile tongue flutter between his teeth before pulling it back in.

"You must be a favorite with the ladies," Undevar blurted out.

"Hmm," Pascal muttered. "It seems you can take the Skelliger off the isles, but the crassness never leaves him. I hope you are not this lewd around Lady Theila."

At the mention of her name, Undevar heard the distance clicking of heels. The timing seemed too contrived when the door to the tower opened. Then again, the meeting with the headmistress couldn't have gone on forever.

"Pascal," Theila greeted. "Good to see you, as always. Here for someone?"

"I must discourage you from digging for what isn't there," Pascal replied stiffly as he walked passed her and disappeared behind the door the sorceress had come through. It was just the two of them now, and Undevar didn't like that he was starting to grow a fondness for the fragrance of freesia. They met eyes and Undevar, growing paranoid that he'd become too transparent, quickly looked towards the mountains.

"Heard what you needed to know?" he asked.

"Yes," Theila answered. "We're headed to Ban Gleán first thing in the morning."

"And?" Theila looked at him. Undevar gave a brisk wave for her to continue. "We going there for a little vacation or something?"

The sorceress glanced back out to the peaks. "Give me a moment," she said. "I'm trying to figure out how to tell you as much as possible without jeopardizing my promise to Gloria."

"What's with leaving _me_ in the dark?" Undevar asked. "I'm going on this damn mission too!"

"This is strictly Vintrican business, and you're still an outsider. Gloria's words, not mine." Theila tapped a finger against her lips before continuing, "Ban Gleán… it's just north of Mahakam. There's a Vintrican sorceress who serves the duke seated there. Recently, well… there's been a bit of trouble that needs investigation." Theila shrugged. "Entirely vague, I know. But I hope that's enough to help get you prepared."

Out of the entire tree, she'd only given him a single leaf. But Undevar let it go—the information was better than none. "Right then. We zap off to Ban Gleán in the morning and check up on this sorceress?"

"Something like that."

"I better get prepared then." And by prepare, Undevar meant drink. Vintrica had nothing close to the strength of homely Skelligan mead, but the palace had some posh stuff. It was still possible to get drunk off of expensive wine.

"Undevar," Theila quickly said. The witcher hesitated. He didn't like the sudden change in her tone. "I… I need to bring this back up. These past few days, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind."

"What is it?" Undevar asked heavily.

Theila turned to him. "That night," she said, "in Valdre's office. When you came in and I was…"

The memory came, sharp and wicked, and stabbed into his mind. Undevar remembered. He remembered how, never before in his life, had he felt so _hurt._ He had been much younger then, and so anger had blinded him. But Undevar knew better now—with the wool finally lifted from his eyes. She hadn't sat upon that desk like that grandmaster's lover. Shame had tinted every bit of her posture like a trapped creature. But still, Undevar wanted to hear it from her.

"He made me," Theila said. "Blackmailed me… with you."

Undevar smiled—behind it, every bit of hate he had ever harbored for his grandmaster rising up like bile. For the longest time he had been forced to choke it back. Not this time. "Seems just when I can't detest him any more, something like this keeps happening." He dipped his head down, letting out a bitter laugh. "You know what the real kicker is? I wasn't just angry—I was jealous."

Theila moved closer to him. She wrapped a hand around his arm. "I never let him touch me." She sighed. "Never. Even just the memory makes my stomach turn."

"Well orient it back," Undevar said. "Why don't we drink that bullshite away with some Corvo Bianco cabernet?"

"But we leave first thing in the morning."

"It'll just be a bottle between us. Won't even be enough to get a buzz."

Theila sighed again. This time, it sounded lighter. "Well… to be fair, you already had me at 'cabernet.' Let's go."

As it turned out, one bottle became three. And while Theila sipped glass after glass, Undevar chugged. Even if it wasn't strong, it was nice. He never knew until now how much of a wine man he was. And being wine drunk— _man,_ was it different than being regular drunk. Undevar became giddy. He giggled and made sounds he didn't think he could make. The two of them started out in Theila's laboratory, laughing and drinking, but then Undevar found himself unable to walk straight and knocked over an instrument. Theila had quickly mended it with a spell and suggested they move someplace else, so they teetered over to her room. That little distance they had tried for so long to hold between them didn't stand a chance by then.

With their minds made cheery by the wine, they delved back into the topic of that night in Valdre's office. Except this time, the somberness and hurt were gone. They found themselves joking about it. Undevar vowed to take down Valdre just so that desk and her atop it could be his. Theila laughed loudly and told him he didn't even need to wait that long. The next thing he knew, the sorceress was perched on her dresser, just as bare as she had been that night. Undevar couldn't help but freeze as he took in as much as his hazy vision would let him. She was far too gorgeous to be real.

"Fuck me," he breathed.

"That's the idea," Theila replied, and they laughed a little too hard. Undevar found himself tearing at his own clothes like he'd done when trapped at Sansira's Spire. The rest, well… one thing led to another, as they say. That distance—it never really did stand a chance.

She was the first to wake up, and gently stirred him awake when she groaned softly and snuggled up tighter against him. Undevar squinted as he opened his eyes. He spied sunlight seeping in through the cracks in the curtains. Ugh, morning. Wasn't something supposed to happen in the morning?

Well, that didn't matter. Undevar wrapped an arm around Theila and pulled her closer to his chest, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin. His other hand came up and rubbed his eyes. Undevar was just thinking about how maybe he ought to get up because he was actually quite hungry when he heard the door open. Still drowsy, he figured it was Theila at first. But then he felt her push against his chest as she lifted herself up. Undevar's eyes opened wide and he lifted his head.

A sandy-haired sorceress was coming in through the door. Theila had just raised herself up and was looking over. It was a split-second calm before the storm. "Theila," the sorceress said. "Gloria said you should have left an hour a—." She stopped dead in her sentence as soon as the sight of two forms under the covers and bare shoulders registered to her.

Theila realized too. She ducked her face down over Undevar's chest, squealing, _"Brielle!"_

"—go-o-okaaaay then," Brielle muttered in a long, drawn-out voice that Undevar could still hear even after she quickly shut the door. He let his head drop back onto the pillow. Theila was still hiding her face against his chest. Undevar let out a slow breath, reaching down to rub her back.

"She should have at least knocked," he said.

"Now the whole Council is going to know by tonight," Theila whined against his chest.

"Do those lasses really prattle that much?"

"It's so much worse than you can imagine." Theila finally lifted herself up again. She gestured around them. "I mean, we're not a bunch of celibates, but this is my bed! _My_ bed!"

"Aye," Undevar groaned, stretching his arms out. "And it's nice. What are these sheets made out of?" Theila suddenly fell on top of him, her face hovering close above his.

"You're not taking this very seriously." Though by the looks of her barely suppressed smile, neither was she.

"I don't regret what happened," Undevar said. "It was a long time coming."

"I don't either, because…" Theila trailed off with a light huff. She crossed her arms over his chest and rested her chin down on them. "Because… is it okay if I say I love you?"

Undevar paused, this time not because he was hesitant, but because he wanted that moment to take in those words. "That's perfectly okay," he told her. He lifted his head to kiss her, but she pushed him back down.

"No," she said. "We both have dragon breath." Theila sat up, and then got up from the bed. Undevar watched her. He did rather like the way her hair fell down her back. "As Gloria says, we should have left an hour ago."

Oh _shit._ That. Undevar let out an exasperated breath as he draped an arm over his eyes. "But first," he said, "I'm hungry."

* * *

"So that's why you're bringing him over a Griffin," was the cheeky comment that Undevar overheard Brielle whispering to Theila right before they left. Which, of course, left Theila flushed while they walked through the portal.

Ban Gleán, like many of the other cities within Kaedwen, boasted a fortress within its heart. However, it was much smaller than its neighboring cities of Vengerberg and Gulet. In was within this fortress that the Duke of Vasconia—a semi-sovereign duchy within Kaedwen—reined. The portal had led them just outside the city, and as they walked, Theila filled Undevar more on the background of their task. Now that they were out of earshot of Gloria, she became a little more liberal with her details.

"The adept counselor here is Mila Brotze. She and I were contemporaries," Theila said as they neared the city. "We never spoke much. I was away on a field study when she became appointed as advisor to the Duchy of Vasconia." She gazed up at the towering fortress that loomed over the city around it. "I'm not too familiar with the political environment here," she admitted. "But I think as representatives of Vintrica, we should be received well. With Mila's help, too."

Thankfully, Theila's predictions stood their ground. They entered the city and made their way to the fortress with no trouble. There, the guards stopped them. After hearing Theila's explanation, one of them said that permission was needed from the duke before they were to be permitted in.

"Fair enough," Theila replied. They were made to wait, but it wasn't long before word came from within the castle that the duke had permitted them to enter. A royal guard, adorned in armor decorated in gold accents that Undevar quite liked the look of, escorted them inside. They walked through stretch after stretch of hallways. From somewhere inside the castle, Undevar caught the enticing smells of a busy kitchen and was reminded of how Gloria had shooed them off before he had even gotten a half-decent breakfast in his belly.

Finally, they came to a long room that boasted an equally long, rectangular table. It didn't seem too odd to Undevar, but Theila gave the guard a puzzled look. "I presumed we would be led straight to the duke," she said.

"No one holds an audience with the duke without Lady Mila's approval," the guard answered.

"I… see."

"She should be here shortly. I must ask for your patience." With that, the guard exited the room. Theila took a seat at one of the chairs. Undevar sat down next to her. The sorceress remained silent as they waited, her nails clacking softly against the polished oak surface.

It couldn't have been more than a minute when the door once again opened, and a woman entered. She wore her light brown hair in a tight bun, letting one lock swoop elegantly over her forehead and down the side of her face. Her dress was made of layer after layer of fine cloth, with the sleeves slashed in Touissanti style. Her bust, generously exposed by her low, square collar, was pushed up and pressed tight by her corset in a way that made Undevar wonder how the woman even managed to breathe. A heavy necklace fanned out from her neck, covered thick in gems. Mila Brotze exuded finesse and luxury.

In one hand, she held a short scepter with a pale stone at its end. The sorceress examined the two guests carefully as she crossed the room. When Theila and Undevar stood, she waved them back down with a brief flick of her hand. "Theila Ialdi," she greeted, her voice as refined as her appearance. "Been quite a while, hasn't it?"

"Indeed," Theila replied.

Mila stopped by the chair across the table the table from them. Instead of sitting, she placed a hand daintily over the chair's back. A delicate smile crossed her face. "And you bring a witcher with you." Her eyes went to him. Undevar quickly snapped his up to meet hers. Admittedly, he had been looking at something else—though in his defense, Mila had very clearly intended for them to be seen. A corner of the sorceress's lips curled up further. "Intriguing. Something tells me this isn't just a friendly visit."

"Lady Mila," Theila said, her voice taking on a more solemn tone. "You know Vintrica's standards for one in your position—an adept advisor shall not take on a controlling role over the position of power she serves."

"Theila." Mila's voice, in turn, became a playful scold. "I do not control the duke. He has tasked me with screening those who wish to see him. He is quite a busy man, you see. Having a duchy to run is no walk in the park. I am simply making sure that his precious time is not wasted."

Theila paused. "You've been acting advisor to the duchy for about… seventy years now, is that correct?"

"Correct."

 _That's about how long I've been alive_ , Undevar realized. As he had no contribution to make in the conversation, he had been reduced to entertaining these frivolous thoughts. Luckily, the two sorceresses were too focused on their conversation to look into his mind.

"Who currently holds the position of Duke of Vasconia?"

"Lord Cadogan," Mila answered.

"And the duke before him?"

"Lord Urien. He passed twenty years ago—may his soul rest in peace." Mila lowered her eyes down to her scepter and stroked the pale stone. "Is this what Vintrica sent you for, Theila? A little question and answer session?"

Theila didn't respond. Mila's eyes flickered back up. Undevar felt his medallion give an abrupt jostle. His eyes danced back and forth between the sorceresses as they regarded one another with concentrated stares. Then, the smile returned to Mila's face. She lifted her chin just slightly. "You've gotten much better," she remarked.

"Might I remind you that telemancy is strictly prohibited during formal meetings," Theila replied stonily.

"Is that what this is?" Mila's voice had become light. A hand rose and draped over her chest. Curses, Undevar found his eyes drawn in that direction again. "I hadn't a clue! Silly me. And here I thought you were here for the sake of seeing a dear, old friend."

"Lady Mila," Theila said, "I'd like to see the Duke."

"Why?" All playfulness had dropped from Mila's voice.

"To ask him a few questions."

"I'm here. Ask me instead. I'm his advisor, after all."

"Why don't you want us seeing him?"

"Like I said," Mila said impatiently. "It is my duty to make sure no one wastes his time."

"Lady Mila, Gloria has sent Undevar and I out of consideration for your reputation. Her other option—the one she was quite tempted to take—was to instigate a full-blown investigation on Ban Gleán."

Undevar saw Mila's lips twitch, though not into a smile. "And why would she do that?"

"She and the Council have noticed several red flags originating from this city," Theila answered. "Its unusually slow growth, despite housing Vasconia's seat of power for starters. And there are allegations that, for quite some time now, no one has actually _seen_ Lord Cadogan."

"He is quite a hermit, I'll won't deny it," Mila said. "Not very outgoing—unlike the father he inherited his seat from. But he performs his duties, and he performs them well. As for economic growth…" The sorceress gave a fragile shrug. "There _is_ growth. Perhaps slow if you should compare us to our neighbors, but doing so would be unfair. Vengerberg and Gulet are positioned in much more advantageous locations. All Ban Gleán has is the dwarves to the south, and I…" Mila hesitated. " _… Agree_ with Lord Cadogan that it is best if we do not create any ties with those unruly bunch."

 _Unruly bunch?_ Undevar echoed in his head. Why that little… Unable to sit in silence any longer, he spoke up, "The dwarves have got ore." Both women immediately looked to him. "More than they know what to do with, and a city can't grow without it. Wouldn't it be in the city's best interest to set aside your preconceptions of Mahakam and do a little bartering with the dwarves?"

That honeyed smile returned again. "I'll be sure to voice your input to the duke," she said. "That's a Skelligan accent, isn't it? My, my. A Bear witcher." She stepped out from behind the chair, walking to the table and leaning up against its edge. "I've always fancied a trip to Skellige." Her eyes were practically boring into Undevar's. "I hear the men there are… something else."

Undevar felt his medallion quiver again. But Mila's gaze was focused on Undevar, and he didn't feel any tingling in his head. Suddenly, the sorceress seated next to him stood up, scraping her chair loudly as she did.

"Well," Theila said, barely concealing the irritation in her voice. "I'm afraid you leave me no choice but to return to Gloria and tell her that you've been uncooperative."

"Now there's really no need for that." Mila pointed her smile towards Theila. "Tell you what—I'll talk with Lord Cadogan and try to convince him to see you. I've warned you already of how much of a hermit he is. Still, I'll try nonetheless. In the meantime, to save you from making unnecessary trips back and forth, why don't the two of you stay here overnight? I'll have rooms prepared."

Theila was quiet as she deliberated, her face still holding onto traces of sourness. Finally, she agreed. Mila looked pleased. "That's wonderful," she said. "Shall I have two rooms prepared?"

"One."

Mila lifted her chin, lowering her lashes to hold Theila's cold stare. "Ah," she said softly. Then, returning to her authoritative tone, she continued, "I imagine that even if Lord Cadogan agrees to see you, he will not do so today. There is an important piece of legislation he is working on with his cabinet, so do be patient. In the meantime, feel free to explore Ban Gleán to your leisure."

"I expect a response from the duke soon," Theila replied, and then strode out of the room. Undevar followed her. Though his back was now turned to Mila, he could practically see the sweet smile that followed him.

Theila's gait didn't slow until they were out of the castle. She glanced back at the entrance as it faded behind them, her brow still as furrowed as it had been in Mila's presence. "Why won't she let us see the duke?" she seethed, though Undevar could tell that wasn't what truly upset her.

After last night, Undevar wondered why Theila had anything to worry about. He sighed, but that seemed to spur her even more. Her eyes shot to him.

"Did you _have_ to stare at her breasts so much?" she demanded.

Immediately, Undevar became defensive. "She had them nearly pushed up to her chin! Where did you expect me to look?" He saw Theila's lips quiver, but she quickly pursed them and turned away. Undevar caught her by the waist before she could storm away.

She pushed against him. "I should have asked for two rooms," she snapped.

"Lass, don't be like that. Come on—we've got a whole evening to ourselves. What'll get that smile back? A little shopping around the bazaar? Or how about we find a cozy little back alley and do some exploring of our own?"

Theila stopped pushing and wrapped her arms around his neck. She stretched herself up, bringing her face closer. "I want…" Undevar leaned down, trying to predict her words with eager anticipation. "To ask around and see if the rumors about Lord Cadogan are true." Her lips quickly dropped out of reach and she pulled away from his arms, walking ahead down the paved path.

Undevar sighed again, this time heavier.

* * *

Word came from the castle that Lady Mila was inviting them to dinner in their grand hall. Undevar, wanting to preserve the good mood he had so meticulously nurtured back into Theila all evening, was reluctant. He suggested to Theila they find a table at some snug inn instead. But Theila reminded him that they were here on formal business, which required them to remain in good standings with the duke.

But, unsurprisingly, Lord Cadogan did not join them at their table—only his advisor did. Theila did remarkably well at burying the hatchet during the meal. They began with casual chatter. Then, Theila brought up the results of their investigation earlier that day, and Undevar could practically feel the tension slowly descending on them like a heavy fog.

"I got to talking with plenty of folks around town," Theila said, her eyes still lowered to the small portion of panna cotta she was scooping a bite out of with her silver spoon. "Those who still remember Lord Urien's days say he always attended Ban Gleán's parades and ceremonies. They also said Lord Cadogan has yet to appear for a single one."

"I know," Mila sighed. "I have brought this up with him, but he waved me off. Told me the ceremonies are frivolous and waste time. It's a shame, really."

"Lord Cadogan is, what? Somewhere in his forties now?"

A pause. "Forty-three, yes."

"No one has witnessed a wedding ceremony for him. Is he unmarried?"

"Unfortunately, he is."

"That's odd," Theila noted. "Does the Duke of Vasconia not wish for an heir?"

"Lord Cadogan is very short-sighted," Mila said, "which makes my work that much harder. He has become much too absorbed in his work. But…" Her voice became cheery again. "You should be pleased to hear that I have let the lord know that you wish to see him, and he has asked me to let him deliberate. A good sign—usually he dismisses these kinds of requests right away. I'm sure you'll have your way by morning."

"That's good," Theila remarked. "May I use your megascope? I'll need to update Gloria."

"Go right ahead."

After dinner was finished, Theila asked Mila to bring her to the laboratory to contact Gloria. Undevar stood, prepared to go with her, but Mila quickly spoke up. "I'll have a guard lead you to my lab, Theila. The witcher and I need to talk."

"What? What for?"

"Private matters," Mila said, her smile growing wider at Theila's vexed look. "The duke requires the services of a witcher, and the fewer ears hear of it, the better. I'm sure you understand."

"And will he agree to see us if I do this for him?" Undevar asked.

"Perhaps," Mila said with a light shrug. "It would certainly go in your favor, wouldn't it?"

Undevar glanced over at Theila. They needed anything that would get them closer to the duke. She knew this, which was why she gave a reluctant nod. A guard came in to escort her out. When the doors shut behind them, Mila finally turned back to Undevar.

"I wonder," she mused in a sickly sweet voice, "if you've ever seen her without her glamor?"

"The contract," Undevar replied gruffly.

Mila ignored him. "You know, the word is that she was a virgin up until her forties—not by choice, of course. Sorceresses don't get married, so why would she save herself? I guess men just never desired her until she learned to glamor herself up right."

"Doesn't matter," Undevar grunted. "The contract."

"You're a man with needs—I understand that, but don't you think you could do so much better?"

She'd managed to insult the both of them in the same breath. Now wasn't that goddamn impressive? "For fuck's sake, this is petty. Now hurry up and tell me what the duke wants."

"The duke doesn't want anything," Mila finally admitted.

Undevar stared at her for a moment. What the hell was this witch playing at? "Well I'll be in my room then."

"Hold on, witcher." Undevar stopped. "The duke doesn't want anything, but I have a contract for you."

"Well then why the hell didn't you say that instead?"

"With Theila present? What do you think she'll assume if I had said 'I need something' to you?"

"I'm a witcher, and she's not irrational."

"I don't know," Mila mused. "She seemed threatened if I even so much as looked at you. But I suppose her fear is well-placed."

"Lady Mila, you're about as transparent as open air. I don't blame her for being defensive. Now what's your contract?"

With a finger, the sorceress gestured for Undevar to follow her. They left the dining hall, through the corridor, and stopped at a window at the far end. There, Mila pointed out. "See that tree over there?" Undevar looked. There was on the far outskirts of Ban Gleán. Despite its distance, it was easily visible—the thing was enormous. "There's a monster that has made its nest underneath its roots. The road from here to Vengerberg strays dangerously near that tree and the monster living underneath it. I've heard of night travelers being attacked by it. Well, witcher? Think you can take care of it?"

"What kind of monster?" Undevar asked.

"Bug-like and territorial, from what I've heard. A kikimore queen, perhaps? In which case, you'll have to make sure you clear out her eggs too."

"Hmm," Undevar said. "Pest control isn't going to be cheap when a queen's involved."

"Do I look like a simple peddler to you? All your expenses will be covered, and you'll be rewarded handsomely if it indeed turns out to be a queen. Plus a bonus for every egg."

"You've got a deal."

"Good," Mila purred. "Bring Theila with you."

"Why?"

"Because I _said_ so. And…" Mila turned away from the window. "Speak of the devil."

Undevar looked over his shoulder as she came around the corner. As expected, Theila frowned at the sight of the two of them standing together. "Heard what you need?"

"Aye." Undevar glanced at Mila. "I think it's time to turn in for the night. Let's go, Theila."

"Wait." Mila placed her hands on her hips. "Theila, sweetie, wouldn't you agree that honesty is important in a relationship?" Undevar saw her hand come up and suddenly give a little flick. The bear head jumped.

He didn't know what happened at first until he looked back at Theila. At the sight of her, he froze.

At first, Undevar thought Mila had somehow burned her face. But the mark was a dark maroon, not bright red like a fresh burn wound would be. And beyond that, Theila looked different overall. Her face was the same, but the definition around her eyes was gone and her lips were a little paler.

Theila looked confused at first, not sure of what happened. Then her eyes went to Undevar. She noticed how he was staring at her. Slowly, like someone reaching for a new wound, she lifted a hand to her face. It went straight to her stained cheek. It must have been mottled to the touch, because her eyes quickly widened. A hurt look quickly crossed her face, and she whirled and disappeared around the corner.

"Uh oh," Mila mused softly. "Looks like she doesn't quite agree." Undevar glared down at her. "I was curious too, witcher. At least now I see why it took four decades for someone to finally touch her."

"Piss off, witch!" Undevar barked. He hurried after Theila, following her rapid steps. He heard a door slam and quickly came too it. But it was locked, and all Undevar could do was uselessly jostle the knob. "Theila, open up."

"Give me—give me a second!" came the breathless reply. After a moment, the latch clicked. Slowly, Undevar opened the door. The air was strong with the smell of freesia, and he saw her standing at the foot of the bed. She was frantically screwing the lid shut over a small pot.

"I don't care," she said, her voice shaking, "about how I look. I really don't! It's just the norm among sorceresses, so I just… just…" Suddenly, she turned towards him, her hands balled into fists. "Why did you stare at me like that? Like I was some sort of _hideous monster?"_

"I didn't mean to," Undevar said. "I've just never seen you without your glamor before."

"Well now you have!" Theila shouted. "Cross that off your bucket list!"

"Stop." He crossed the room in a few quick steps and hugged her. "Stop it. We'll leave, aye? Go back to Vintrica—you and I. Leave this behind us."

"Just you and I?"

"Aye."

He heard Theila take a deep breath. "I can't," she said. "We have work to do. You have that contract with the duke." She slipped out of his arms. Turning back to the foot of the bed, she pulled out a nightgown from her suitcase. "It's going to be a busy morning tomorrow. I just need some sleep. What does the duke want from you?"

"There's a kikimore queen right outside the city," Undevar answered. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Theila change into the nightgown. "Come out with me tomorrow."

"To kill the kikimore?"

"Would rather have you with me than keep you stuck in this castle with that witch." Theila came around and lay down on her side of the bed. A grin snuck onto Undevar's face. He stretched out across the bed. With his hand, he drew a line up Theila's thigh, bringing the hem of her nightgown with it. "There's still time," he murmured quietly. "Why don't we prove her wrong?"

Theila huffed. "Not this again," she said. "It's going to make you another hour late to your kikimore appointment."

"I'd prefer that, actually."

Theila hesitated, and then rolled over to face him. "Why are you still clothed then?"

"That's the spirit. Don't be modest now—I want her to hear you."

* * *

 _All of the waves crashing the shore_

 _I will protect you from all that and more_

 _If love is a battle raging forth_

 _I'm winning the war_

 _The walls you build tonight behind_

 _I'll break them down to pieces_

 _Secrets you can't spill in time_

 _I'll make it so you're singing_

"Livin Right"—The Score


	65. Chapter 65 - On Whose Orders

_**A/N: New cover's up. An old couple, past their prime, but still happy.**_

* * *

Of course, the exhaustion pushed her to sleep beyond the rising of the sun. When she opened her eyes, her heart jumped at the sight of light seeping in from around the curtains. Theila quickly scrambled up from the bed. She hurried into the bathroom, where she cleaned and brushed every last bit of last night's rugged and downright animalistic traces. A quick bath and change of clothes later, she finally deemed herself decent enough to be seen by the public eye.

Undevar, on the other hand, groggily lifted himself up after her and was far less meticulous in his morning routine. Theila noticed with shock that he hadn't even bothered to comb his hair. Ugh, men. Or maybe it was just this one.

Mila didn't seem peeved by their tardiness. Rather, she cheerily greeted them at breakfast over buttered biscuits, jam scones, and a variety of fry-ups. Undevar kept his response quick so that he could prey on the hapless food. Theila, though, felt her mood quickly plunge in Mila's presence and silently nibbled a piece of toast after giving her frigid reply.

Breakfast was terse. Undevar was devouring half the table with the mannerisms of a true Skelliger, and Theila was still too preoccupied with angrily stewing over last night to correct him. Mila quietly sipped her tea, and when the cup was empty save for a small puddle at the bottom, she stood and invited Theila to step out for a private chat.

"You can stay here if you want," she told Undevar. "I wouldn't want to interrupt you from your, ah… indulging."

Theila dropped her last bit of toast back into her plate, picked up her clean napkin, and rose. As she passed Undevar, she took one of his wrists and stuffed the napkin into it. "Be sure to use it at _some_ point," she mumbled quietly to him before hurrying to catch up with Mila. The court sorceress led her far into the corridors, until Theila was sure they were practically on the other side of the castle.

They came through a doorway and into a small courtyard with a fountain spewing water from its short spire. There, Mila stopped. Theila noticed she was still holding that scepter. Come to think of it, she had never seen Mila without it.

"He can still hear us from here, can't he?"

Theila shrugged. "Probably."

Mila sighed. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Despite what you think of me, I'm not some wicked she-fox withholding secret after secret. I brought you out here to apologize."

Theila hesitated. "Apologize?"

"Yes, for last night, obviously. I've had a whole night to mull over how immature I was. We're both a century old, you and I, and still I behaved like a child. I didn't mean to. The truth is, Theila, I've always been a little envious of you."

"Come again?"

"Oh, don't act so surprised. I think all the girls our age envied you to some degree. You were the prodigy among us, and while we trekked through our lessons at the average pace, you soured ahead. Me—I was a nobleman's daughter. I grew up being told by everyone around me that I was the best. And then I met you, and you were the living example that I wasn't." Mila looked down at her scepter, delicately caressing the milky white stone. "And beyond that, you were beautiful. Are, sorry. You could've had any man you wanted, and we'd be left with just the crumbs."

Theila was stunned to silence as she listened. She had never realized that the other apprentices had felt that way about her. It was flattering, humbling and… a little strange to take in. "Oh," was all she could manage in response.

"I haven't seen you since our years at Vintrica," Mila continued. "I guess I was still holding onto all that pent-up frustration. And seeing the way that witcher looks at you…" She lifted her chin. But instead of the usual prideful gleam that filled her eyes, Theila spotted hurt. "Lord Urien forbade me from any close relationships, you know. He told me that as his court advisor, it would detract from my professionalism—if not in fact, then in appearance."

"That's awful. You should have filed a complaint with Vintrica. I'm sure Gloria wouldn't have stood for that."

"I vied long and hard to get this position, Theila. As did my mistress. I was not going to jeopardize all that work just because of a little setback."

"And does Lord Cadogan feel the same way?"

"Lord Cadogan is far more lax when it comes to dictating my personal life. But I'm afraid the damage is already done—love has become something entirely alien to me. But that is all behind me now… or so I thought. I ended up directing that frustration at you last night, and I felt the shame for it. I think it's cleansed me. So, Theila, I feel it necessary to apologize."

"Lady Mila," Theila replied. "I feel honored to have heard your story, and after doing so, I don't think there is any need for you to."

"That's… very kind of you." Mila lowered her scepter and turned back to Theila. "Some day, I hope we can be friends."

"I think this is as good a first step as any."

Mila smiled. "Well then, unlike us, the morning ages. I won't keep you any longer. While you and the witcher go to take care of the monster, I'll speak with Lord Cadogan and see if he is ready to see you. And Theila…"

Theila had just turned when Mila said her name. She turned back and was startled when she felt the stone at the end of the scepter press gently against her shoulder. Looking down at the pale gem, she thought she felt the skin underneath it tingle. "Do be careful out there, now."

* * *

He was nervous. As a newly appointed member of the royal guard, he figured his first mission would have been something a little more low-risk. He had expected perhaps to participate in the upcoming midsummer parade as one of the guardsmen closely flanking the royal carriage—the crown jewel of any Ban Gleán parade. Once, he had been told, the Duke of Vasconia would ride in that carriage to be witnessed by the masses. But Lord Urien had died when he was just a babe, and Lord Cadogan never rode in that carriage. The lord of a lower house always served as his surrogate.

Come to think of it, even as an official member of the duke's royal guard, he had never met Lord Cadogan. He wondered if any had—not anyone he knew, that was for sure. Perhaps no one saw the duke. Well, maybe aside from his advisor, the Lady Mila. She had been Lord Urien's advisor too, so Cadogan would have grown up around her. Maybe that's why she was the only one he trusted to be present in the flesh for. She _did_ see him, didn't she? Of course. Why else would she been seen constantly entering and exiting the throne room? Who else would be giving those orders from within there?

A horse stamped and tore him out of his thoughts. Once again, the anxiety crept over him, quickening his heart and shortening his breath. Lady Mila had sent them here to wait underneath the tree. He remembered her words exactly as she had spoken them.

"They will try to steal away on this path in the early hours of dawn," the sorceress had told them. "Criminals. Enemies of the duke. He has ordered for their arrest, and as his royal guard you shall deliver. But be warned—these are highly dangerous individuals: an adept and a witcher. Do _not_ underestimate them. Especially the witcher." They had been given dimeridium charms to hang from their saddles. It would weaken the adept, they were told. But nothing would weaken the witcher except lethal force. Kill him if you must, Lady Mila had ordered, and bring the adept back critically wounded but still alive. "But should she leave you with no other choice, kill her too."

A guardsman had suggested they arrest the two while they were still inside the castle. At that, Lady Mila's eyes had flashed dangerously. "And have _me_ affected by the dimeridium as well? The duke would sooner have your head."

And so they were to wait out on the outskirts of Ban Gleán by the old, dry tree. The sun was already starting to peek over the edge. He was beginning to wonder if Lady Mila was perhaps wrong, but didn't dare voice his doubt. It was rumored that the sorceress could hear all in Ban Gleán, and he didn't know enough about magic to disbelieve it.

Then, he saw them—two people coming up the path. They could've been anyone—no, no, they were stepping off the path. They were coming towards the tree. It was them.

The sun had already risen. They'd arrived about an hour later than the time Lady Mila gave, but it was unmistakably them. Already, he was beginning to shake just from the sight of them.

They approached the tree cautiously. He noticed how the witcher's eyes seemed to be concentrated on the tree's roots. They spoke softly to one another. Neither of them saw the royal guardsmen because of Lady Mila's illusion. The trap had yet to be sprung.

It was after a few more steps when one of them—the woman—stopped and reached up and held a hand to her head. "I feel… I'm feeling ill," she told the witcher. He asked her what was wrong.

"It's like…" Her other hand came up. She began wavering. The witcher hurried to her and held her by the arms. "Is there dimeridium around the tree?"

"Dimeridium?" the witcher repeated. "Why would there be—?"

The young guardsman felt a harsh, brisk slap of wind hit his face. The witcher and adept look towards them, and he knew the illusion had been dropped. With their cover dropped, the royal guards quickly raised their crossbows and trained them on the two fugitives. The one in his own hands quivered gently.

Suddenly, Lady Mila's bodiless voice boomed over them. "Enemies of the duchy," she said, "you are to be apprehended and brought to face justice for your crimes. Any resistance will be met with lethal force."

"What the h…?" The witcher's eyes fell on the guards. The young man noticed how inhuman they were and fought hard to suppress his shudder. No doubt these _things_ were criminals. "That _witch!"_

"By order of the duke, you are under arrest!" the lead guardsman said, spurring his horse to step forward. A line of guards, him included, had their crossbows trained on the two.

"For fuck's sake!" the witcher growled. "We should have never trusted that back-stabbing wench!"

The witcher, and his anger, scared the young guard. He had heard the things people said about witchers—how they were made. What they were like. What they were, and what they weren't.

"Hold on," the adept said. Though still weak, she straightened away from the witcher. Slowly lifting her hands up, palms facing out in a show of harmlessness, she took a step towards the guards. "We are not enemies of the duke. Please, just tell us what's going on."

"We are acting on order of the duke," the lead guardsman replied. "Your questions will be answered when we take you back to Ban Gleán."

"Are you acting on order of the duke, or of Lady Mila?"

"Men, forward!" At the lead's order, the first line of guardsmen moved forward.

"Wait, wait please!" the adept continued. "Surely you too must have noticed! You cannot deny it—something strange is happening inside of that castle! Lady Mila is keeping you all in the dark! We believe the duke is—."

It had been an honest mistake. This was his first mission—it shouldn't have been. But Lady Mila had been adamant in sending newer recruits over the senior guardsmen for reasons she kept to herself. The witcher and adept—they terrified him. His hands were trembling so much. And he knew they had said at training time and time again to never put his finger over the crossbow's trigger until he was _absolutely certain_ he was ready to fire, but fear made him forget. And… and he didn't remember squeezing down on it, but maybe his hand had been shaking too hard and—.

The crossbow in his hands jolted as it recoiled, and he heard the spring crack. The bolt cut off her sentence. The adept jerked and fell back as the bolt struck her in the chest.

Everything was quiet for a second—for one last heartbeat. He saw the guard next to him give him a startled look. Then, came the worst sound he had ever heard.

 _"NO!"_ He heard it all in the witcher's scream. Pain, agony, heartbreak. And the unbridled anger that told them all without words that they were all going to die.

He sprung towards them, the sword that had been on his back somehow already in his hand. The footmen in the front fired their crossbows. But none of them hit him, and even before the bolts sank uselessly into the ground, the witcher had made his first kill.

The young guardsman couldn't comprehend how the witcher moved. It was almost as if he teleported from guard to guard, blade flashing and leaving bleeding men in its wake. Crossbows were replaced with swords to meet the witcher up close. But the power they felt behind that swinging greatsword was unlike anything they had ever come up against.

The mounted guardsmen spurred their steeds out from behind the footmen, aiming to circle around and close the witcher in. But they found that their horses—beasts that had been trained to withstand the stress of battle—refused to move towards the witcher. They stamped and shrieked, fighting against the bits that pulled in their mouths. The mounted guards were forced to abandon their horses. Once the saddles were emptied, the panicked steeds turned and fled back towards the city.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes since all hell broke loose, and already the ground was covered in bodies. The young guardsman, nothing but a terrified boy under the armor plating, found himself among the remaining few survivors. His sword was in hand, and he willed his body to conjure up the muscle memory of his training. But he couldn't will himself to approach the witcher, because anyone who had was now lying on the ground. But it was only a matter of time before he would have to, and as a member of the royal guard, he couldn't back down.

Suddenly, something solid and heavy struck him in the shoulder and knocked him onto his back. He felt the thundering of hooves through the ground and the whinny of a horse that had lagged behind. He lay on the ground, as still as the dead men around him.

Maybe if he lay still enough, the witcher would pass right over him. It was a cowardly thing to do, but he was just a boy and this shouldn't have been his first mission.

While he waited and listened to the dull heartbeat in his ears, he saw the adept lying not too far away. Her colorful dress stood out from among the bloodstained armor plating around her. Her eyes were hooded, and her hair fanned out from around her face.

He hadn't meant to shoot her. It had just been an honest mistake—one that ended up paying in lives. He wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself.

And then all was quiet. Heavy footsteps thudded in the still air. He saw a pair of boots stop by the adept, and then the witcher fell down onto his knees so forcefully that it shook his entire frame. He bundled the woman in his arms and brought her up to him. The silent survivor watched the witcher cradle her against his chest, rocking her back and forth.

And then the witcher spoke in a voice so soft and broken, the young guard wished he didn't have to hear it.

"We're safe now. It's okay. We'll go back to Vintrica—you and I. We'll be safe. They'll be able to save you. Just wait a little longer, Theila, wait a little longer for me."

He saw the adept's hand twitch and realized she was still alive. But…

"No, no… no no no no." The witcher cradled her tighter. "Theila, no, just hang in there. Don't—Theila. Please." He lifted his face and placed a hand over her cheek, gazing down at her. Watching her die, the guard realized. "I love you… I love you. All those times you waited for me to say it and I never did—I love you. Don't do this to me, Theila. Don't do this to me again. I love you." He paused, and then let out a low, rattling breath. "No…"

Suddenly, the young guardsmen thought he saw something rise from the adept—something white and misty. But he could barely see from the way his head was angled. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but that misty thing seemed to suddenly fly off towards the direction of Ban Gleán.

The witcher had lost his words. All he could do was bury his face against her and rock back and forth. It was jarring—to see this mutant behave almost like… a man.

What were witchers?

The ground began to shake, and the young guard recognized it as the oncoming thundering of hooves. He heard them riding in from the distance—reinforcements from the castle. The guard dared to move his head an inch and saw them out of the corner of his eye. He saw the banner that one of them carried—the elite guard. The witcher was going to be put down.

Suddenly, he heard the crack of a crossbow, but nothing hit the witcher. Instead, in the distance, one of the guardsmen fell from his horse. The formation immediately veered, and charging in from the opposite side was a lone rider on a buckskin horse. The guard saw the twin swords on the rider's back and realized it was another witcher.

He saw the witcher lift a hand, and the rider-less horse began following him as though commanded by some spell. They galloped towards the bodies where the grieving witcher held the dead adept.

The rider of the buckskin horse stopped. "Undevar!" he shouted. "We need to go!"

The kneeling witcher shook his head. "I can't leave her."

"We'll avenge her! But if we stay, we're both dead! Let's go!"

The witcher finally lifted his head. His eyes rose to meet the young guard's, causing the young man's heart to jump. The witcher knew he was alive—he'd somehow known all along. But in those inhuman eyes was no more anger. It had all gone to leave behind something that was almost lifeless.

The orange eyes dipped back down to the adept. "I'll come back," he told her softly. "I'm coming back for you, Theila." He lowered her back onto the ground before rising to his feet and mounting the second horse. Both men spurred their steeds and fled.

* * *

He could hardly feel the rocking of the horse underneath him and was blind to the worried glances his companion gave him as they rode. All he could concentrate on was the dull beating in his chest and the memory of holding her. His eyes only saw the light in hers fading until there was nothing left. He didn't know how he was supposed to feel. Maybe he was supposed to feel _something_ , but here too was nothing.

Then he heard Vesemir break the silence for the first time in eternity. "I'm sorry."

For some reason, the Wolf's words made him angry. "Sorry don't mean shite."

The Wolf didn't respond. He turned his eyes forward. But it seemed Vesemir couldn't stand the silence any longer, because he spoke back up again. "Heard from the dwarves that there was something sinister brewing in Ban Gleán. I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own eyes. Should have been there sooner."

"And _what?"_ Undevar suddenly snapped, the rage exploding in his chest. Vesemir looked at him. The horse underneath him nickered nervously. "Think you would've been the hero of the day and saved everyone? _Fuck off!_ I was standing right there—right next to her! They shot her because of… because of that witch!" Undevar ground his teeth, memories suddenly rising to the surface of his mind. " _Bring Theila_. I should have known! Bleedin' wench mocked Theila and crowed over her misery! Then topped it off by killing her! I'll flay that wench and leave her dangling from her castle window!" He suddenly felt the horse give a light buck and just barely managed to stay on.

Vesemir soothed the panicked beast with Axii. "Hey, calm the hell down. None of that is going to help you."

"That right? And what do you think will?"

"A plan," Vesemir answered. "Affirmative action."

"Just fuck right off."

"Undevar, you need to stop replacing everything with anger. You'll get your time to grieve, but right now we need to find out what's happening in Ban Gleán."

"I need to get Theila back."

"And we'll do that once we get back into the city."

"Too late. Mila's declared me an enemy of the duke, and your cat eyes make you one too. If we so much as set one foot into that city, we'll be up to our noses in guards."

"I'm not about to suggest just strolling back into Ban Gleán," Vesemir said. "But we _do_ need to get back inside, and I know the best way."

"And that is…?"

Vesemir nodded ahead. Undevar saw that they were approaching the border of a small forest. "We're just south of Ard Carraigh on the border of a forest that, among some circles, is well-known for what's within. She's known as the Living Ghost, on account of being able to bypass any wall in the world."

"We're finding some crafty wench to get us into Ban Gleán?" Undevar didn't like the idea of adding a third person to his party. The more people that were crowded around, the less likely he'd get his opportunity to take down Mila himself. And he _would_ be the one to end her—his own personal way.

"You'll understand once you meet her."

They rode their horses into the forest, entering the shade of the canopy. Trees, varying from wispy, pale-barked saplings to grand oaks, surrounded them. Undevar glanced around as they trekked deeper in. Aside from brief glimpses of woodland creatures, there wasn't a soul in sight.

Then, after a few more minutes, Vesemir's buckskin gave a snort. Undevar saw its pointed ears swivel and spotted movement above them. His eyes shot up to see a person sitting down on a tree branch overhead. It was an Aen Seidhe woman—her pointed ears came up from between wisps of gold hair that had escaped from her tied hair. She wore a simple dark emerald tunic. The soles at the bottom of her boots were thin to shush her steps. From the branch, she lazily swung her legs as she watched them.

"Lost again, Vesemir?"

"Nope. I'm right where I want to be."

"Good for you." Her eyes switched over to Undevar. "Ah, another cat-eyes. The two of you out on a romantic stroll?"

"Lelyn," Vesemir said. "You wouldn't happen to be free, would you? Because if that's the case, I might have a job for you."

The she-elf leaned forward, the corner of her lips tugging into a grin. "Maybe," she replied. "Maybe not." She pushed off of the tree branch, landing soundlessly onto the grass. "Which walls you want me passing through?"

"It's something a little different," Vesemir replied. "I need you to get Undevar and I through those walls with you."

At his words, Lelyn looked displeased. "I'm the best sneak in all of Kaedwen—probably the whole damn world. You could tell King Radovit I was coming just to let him prepare, and I'd still be able to nab a scone from his tray during afternoon tea. But I can do that _alone_ , not with Clumsy and Clumsier with me." She gestured towards Vesemir and Undevar.

"Lelyn, this is _important_. You'll be paid for your troubles. Name your price."

"Well give me a place first."

Vesemir glanced at Undevar. "Ban Gleán. The duke's castle."

Lelyn blinked. "Vesemir, do yourself a favor and close that coin pouch back up. There's no way I'm going anywhere near Ban Gleán, and especially not that castle."

"Why not?"

The she-elf crossed her arms. "I've heard things about that place. Too many rumors, and too varied to get a clear picture. All I know is that apparently, death isn't the worst fate that can befall someone in there."

At the mention of death, Undevar was suddenly reminded of the morning. His hands tightened on the reins. "Only thing worst than death is staying behind," he growled. "Now I don't give one bleedin' fuck if you getting us in there leads us to certain doom—you _are_ getting us in."

Lelyn glanced at the Bear. "What's soured your milk?"

"He lost someone close to him," Vesemir answered quietly. "Just this morning."

Lelyn's arms dropped. Quickly, she perched her hands back up on her hips. Heaving a sigh, she said, "Okay." A foot tapped noiselessly against the ground. Her eyes drifted eyes towards the canopy as she pondered deep in thought. After a few moments, Lelyn said, "5,000 ducats and I'll have you inside that castle."

 _"5,000?"_ Undevar repeated. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

"Not as much as you are, trying to get inside Ban Gleán."

"I've got about 3,000," Vesemir said. "Care to chip in some?"

Undevar gave him a dismissive wave. "Keep your pouch shut, pup. I'll pay the full 5,000—I'm the one itchin' to get back inside. Finally putting that witch down is worth all the gold in the world to me."

Lelyn's eyebrows rose. "Real charming friend you have here, Vesemir. Well, witcher, let's see if you've got the pocket lining to back it up. I take my payment up front—I'm no witcher."

"You expect me to sit down and count out 5,000 ducats now?"

"Just give me the pouch. I'll be able to tell by the weight."

'This wench is dead radge,' Undevar thought, but took his two coin pouches out from the saddlebags nonetheless. Lelyn took one in either hand and bounced them to feel their weight.

"You're about 700 ducats short," she said. "I assume you only had 4,300 to begin with?"

"Something like that," Undevar mumbled.

"I can—."

"Pup, didn't you hear what I said?" Undevar took the furs from his shoulder and threw them at Lelyn. She managed to catch it with her arms. "Skelligan otter pelt. That cloak ought to sell for about 1,000 this far inland. Keep the change."

"Well," Lelyn replied breathlessly. "I would've preferred you wash this before you gave it to me—I can smell you on this, even when my nose isn't exactly on par with a witcher's." She shifted the fur over until it was draped across her shoulder. "Fine. Head back to Ban Gleán and I'll meet you there. We'll be inside those castle walls by tomorrow night." She turned, hooking one coin pouch onto her belt while letting the other swing from her hand. The she-elf quickly disappeared between the trees.

Vesemir turned his horse around. "She expects us to be back at the city by sunset tomorrow," he said. "I know a place not far from here we can stay for the night. It's about a half hour's ride east." They rode out of the forest, spending the journey in silence. Then, after a while, Undevar spotted the 'place' Vesemir was referring to in the distance. It was a small cottage, and judging by the way his medallion began jostling, he could only assume an adept was living in there.

He was getting absolutely sick of sorceresses.

"Carinne lives out here on her own," Vesemir said. "Goes to Ard Carraigh and works as a mid-wife—a damn good one too. I'm pretty sure she helped birth what's currently half of Ard Carraigh."

"Seems like you know a lot of lasses across these parts, pup."

"It's not like that," Vesemir said quickly. "I know a lot of people—world gets pretty small when you spend most of your life traveling. It just so happens that Lelyn and Carinne are the ones around here."

"Uh huh."

They dismounted when they reached the cottage. Vesemir knocked, and Undevar heard a series of crashes and mumbled curses behind the door, along with a hissed, "Tabatha, get out of the _way!"_ The door opened, and from behind it was a woman with wildly curly, straw-blonde hair. "Oh. Vesemir, it's you." From between the sorceress's feet, a gray cat emerged. It padded over to Vesemir and purred loudly as it rubbed the side of its head against his boots.

"Good to see you, Carinne. And you too, Gwen," he added to the cat that circled around his feet.

"What are you here for? Have another emergency birth going on somewhere?" Carinne's eyes immediately went to Undevar. "Where's your wife a—Oh, no, he's a witcher too. He can't…" Her eyebrows stitched together in confusion. "What are you doing here then?"

"Actually…" Vesemir's voice suddenly became sheepish. "I don't mean to trouble you, but we need a place for the night."

Carinne's frown deepened. "This is my house, Vesemir. Not an inn."

"I know. If it's not much trouble… and we'll be gone before dawn."

"You always are," Carinne mumbled. Opening the door wider, she said, "Fine, come on in. And bring Gwen in too. Melitele help her if she ends up getting stuck in a tree again." She disappeared back into the cottage. Vesemir scooped up the gray cat before following after her. Undevar tagged at the Wolf's heels, but stopped when he heard mewling behind him. He turned to see a brown, furry tomcat sitting right outside the door, staring at Undevar as if beseeching to be let in. The Bear held the door open for it, but it simply stood on the porch and stared. After a few seconds, Undevar asked, "You coming in?" The tomcat stared.

Letting out a huff, Undevar shut the door.

Inside, Carinne had them seated at the table and poured them mugs of mulled cider. "I've a couple of expectant mothers I need to check up on tonight—shouldn't take more than an hour or so. In the meantime, make yourselves at home… but not too much so. And watch out for Tabatha—she likes to walk across your path. Don't worry, all that talk about bad luck is just poppycock."

The sorceress took a portal to Ard Carraigh, leaving the two witchers behind to drink from their mugs. It was quiet at first, save for the slow ticking of a grandfather clock and Gwen's loud purring as she lay stretched across Vesemir's lap.

"Place is chock full of the damn vermin," Undevar grumbled as he spied yet another tabby cat sitting on top of the grandfather clock.

"Not a cat person?"

"Not too keen, nay."

"Don't let Carinne catch you saying that. She told me she always preferred the company of cats over people—says the latter are far more irritating. Oi, Gwen, old girl!" he suddenly cried as the gray cat playfully latched onto his hand with her claws. "Be gentle with me now! Got claws as sharp as a grave hag's!" The cat let go of him and stared up with large, innocent eyes. She stretched out, inviting another rub on the belly. "Not a chance. Fool me once, Gwen."

Undevar had made short work of the mulled cider. It was weak—far too weak. When the mug was empty, he took his own flask out.

The burning didn't soothe him like it usually did, and the alcohol didn't quiet his thoughts as he prayed it would. He couldn't stop thinking about her, or the smell of freesia. A quiet voice told him he would never see her again, and he still didn't quite believe it.

"This time yesterday, I was still with her," Undevar said softly. "If I'd known that night would be our last, I would have never fallen asleep."

"What happened?"

"That sorceress—Mila Brotze—tasked me with taking care of a kikimore below that tree. She was lying through her teeth the entire time. Wasn't no damn kikimore—just her guardsmen ready to drag us back to Ban Gleán in shackles. Then… I don't know why… they just killed her. Shot her right in front of me. She was just trying to reason with them." Undevar took a deep swig from his flask. "I just reacted. Couldn't think. Tore through them—just killed anyone that got too close." The Bear sighed. "Some of them were pups, just like you. I bet they were just following orders, but now they're dead. Seems like the only thing I'm really good at—killing innocents."

Undevar capped his empty flask. "But tomorrow, I'll have that witch's blood on my sword. She's far from innocent, and I'm going to see her dead even if it's the last thing I do." Undevar sat back and stared out the window. "Because after this, what's the point anymore?"

The evening was quiet, occasionally graced by the chorus of crickets and the rhythmic hooting of an owl. As the sun set and bled brilliant crimson across the horizon, Undevar pondered quietly. He came to a reluctant decision, deeming it the best course of action to take.

Carinne returned after dark, stepping into the cottage with the brown tomcat at her heels. Undevar stood to meet the sorceress and asked to use her megascope. "What for?" Carinne asked.

"I need to contact Vintrica."

"The school to the east?" Carinne paused. "May I ask why?"

"To… let them know what's happened."

Carinne peered curiously up at the Bear. To his relief, she didn't pry into his mind. "Let me set it up for you," she said. "Come with me."

In the few minutes it took for Carinne to establish contact with the school, Undevar stood quietly and wearily revised again and again what he would say to the sorceresses of Vintrica. He'd have to tell them what happened that morning, but should he provide background first? Slowly lead up to it? Provide cushioning for the bad news?

But none of the words came to him when he saw the image of Gloria appear in the black and white, mirror-like surface. He watched the headmistress grimly as she and Carinne spoke. When it was his time to talk, Undevar stepped forward. He saw Gloria cross her arms.

"Witcher," she addressed. "What are you doing by Ard Carraigh?"

"Gloria," Undevar said in a low voice. "She's dead."

He'd expected shock. Sorrow. Even anger. But what he saw instead on Gloria's face just then was a look of stark annoyance.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice terse. "Is this supposed to be some sort of prank?"

"Some sort…?" Undevar repeated. "Wh… _a prank?_ You think I would joke about this kind of thing?"

"If you'd ask me earlier, I'd say certainly not. But after what I've heard just now… I'm not so sure."

"I saw… I was right there, Gloria! This morning, Theila was killed right in front of me!"

"Well," the headmistress said. "I don't know what you thought you saw, but Theila is perfectly alive and well in Ban Gleán. I say this because I was just talking to her a few minutes ago through this very megascope."

* * *

Vesemir almost pitied the Bear—all of his coin and that nice fur cloak just to end up like this. Well, at least their faces were hidden to salvage a bit of dignity.

When he had seen what Lelyn'd prepared for them, he'd looked at her with as much disbelief and vexation he could physically muster. The she-elf had stared back, not the least taken back by the witcher's fierce scowl. "Only a dumb ass would consider getting you two in via stealth," she said. "Luckily, being a sneak doesn't mean just tiptoeing around. Consider yourselves lucky that you came to _me."_

He could hear her voice over the sound of the cart's wheels and the horse's methodical steps. "Make way, make way!" she cried. "These are to be delivered straight to the duke! Keep your distance, folks! Look, but don't touch! They may look safe from inside this cage, but trust me you do not want to be anywhere near these bars! If one gets a hold of you, the only medicine that'll help you is euthanasia! Make way, I said!"

 _For the love of Melitele_ , was it hot. 'I feel like that Undevar,' Vesemir thought miserably to himself. 'Trapped under those hundreds of pounds of Skelligan furs.' It was like every bit of heat in all of Ofir was bunched in there with him.

Lelyn was, without a doubt, a master of her craft. And her cleverness was something Vesemir didn't question—especially now that his life was possibly depending on it. But he had certainly felt a little bubble of doubt when he saw those pelts. Of what animal they had once belonged to, he had no idea. It looked like some sort of boar, but with a bear's body and large cat paws. Vesemir suspected that perhaps several animal skins had been stitched masterfully together to create those two monstrosities.

Though nightmarish, those pelts were their key back into Ban Gleán—or so Lelyn claimed. Vesemir had figured their key would look more like creeping across rooftops, belly crawling through narrow tunnels, or even trudging through underground sewer lines. To be honest, he would have preferred any of those scenarios to this. But here they were, two witchers stuffed inside the empty skins of two atrocious creations that were inside a carted cage. And did he mention that it was hot in here?

Vesemir was in the midst of wondering when exactly his life had taken such an odd turn when he felt the cart stop. He heard a guard asking about Lelyn, and the she-elf confidently explained that she was bringing gifts on behalf of her master—the Lord Myron of Ard Carraigh.

"Gifts?" the guard repeated uneasily, and Vesemir didn't blame him.

"Yessir, gifts!" Lelyn replied. "These beasts are extraordinarily rare. Only the best of hunters could ever hope to dream of capturing them, and Lord Myron nabbed these two himself."

"I… I see. Well, no one sees—or presents… gifts… to—the duke without Lady Mila's approval."

"Well, where is your Lady Mila?"

Then came a voice Vesemir had never heard before. "Right here." Even from within the deafening confines of the animal pelts, he could hear the sheer authority radiating from her voice. "Now what is the meaning of this? And what are those _things?"_

"Gifts, my lady. From Lord Myson of Ard Carraigh."

"Who?" the sorceress replied dismissively.

"Lord My _ron_ ," Lelyn corrected.

"Still doesn't ring any bells. Must not be anyone important. Is this what your lord calls gifts? If I didn't know better, I think he was trying to insult the duke with these abominations."

"They're rare beasts, my lady," the guard chimed in. "Lord Myron captured them himself."

"Yes, and? Instead of mounting them above his own fireplace, he carts them all the way here? Why on earth would he do that?"

"My lady, if you'd be so kind as to hear me out," Lelyn said. "My lord has heard that Duke Cadogan is still unwed. He sends these gifts as a cordial gesture, and to see if perhaps the duke would like to meet my lord's daughter and see if she is to his liking?"

"Well," Mila replied, an air of mockery in her tone, "if Lord Myron's daughter bears any resemblance to those things in there, the duke will certainly have to turn that _gracious_ offer down."

"If we could perhaps show—."

"The duke is quite busy," Mila suddenly interrupted. "Please offer your lord our humblest thanks, but we won't be accepting these gifts. Take them back to Ard Carraigh."

It seemed Lelyn briefly forgot her role, because her voice took on that tone Vesemir knew all too well. "But I—."

 _"Leave_ , _"_ Mila's harsh voice cut in. "Or your Lord Myron will be getting back his cart, less one knife-ear with it." To the guard, she ordered, "See to it that the she-elf is out of these city walls as soon as possible." Retreating steps told Vesemir that Mila had abruptly left.

"Bitch," he heard Lelyn hiss under her breath.

"You heard Lady Mila," the guard told her. Vesemir heard the clanging of his metal boots as he stepped closer. "Time to go."

"Wait," Lelyn pleaded quickly. "Sir, at least let my horse and I rest for a few minutes. We've come all the way from Ard Carraigh. Please."

The guard hesitated. "See here, if Lady…" He trailed off, and then in a very soft mumble, said, "Well… I suppose you can have five minutes. Five minutes, and then you're off."

"Of course. Thank you, sir."

The guard directed her around to the castle to where the stables were so the horse could drink from a trough. He warned her to keep the caged beasts away from the horses, lest they be spooked. Then, as a side note, he asked her why they almost seemed dead.

"They're sedated," Lelyn answered. "Normally, they're fierce predators—they'd be tearing at the bars towards you and I. But my lord ensured they would be lethargic and complacent in Duke Cadogan's presence."

"Huh," the guard replied. Vesemir grimaced as he shifted his cramped legs. "Wait, I think that one's starting to wake up. You got any more of those sedatives?"

"No, it's fine. Say, is there anywhere discreet I can park the cart so the horses don't see them?"

"There's an empty little spot just past the courtyard." The cart jostled as it was set in motion again.

After a while, Lelyn groaned. "Ugh, what's that smell?"

"Just the manure pile. The stable hands cart the dirty straw from the stables into that shed over there."

"No wonder this place is empty."

Well, at least the sweltering animal skins saved him from the stench of horseshit, though that was largely due to the fact that the smells of his own sweat and the musty insides of the pelts were currently assaulting Vesemir's nose.

"This place is lovely!" Lelyn said. "Well, aside from the huge pile of poop nearby. Do you, um, would you mind giving me a little tour? Just around here?"

Oh no. Lelyn was using that blasted elven charm of hers. That guard didn't stand a chance. "Certainly, miss," he replied, sounding a bit flattered. "Er, right this way. Look here—see that window? That's the room to…" His voice faded as the two of them walked off.

Vesemir propped himself up. No doubt it looked as if the animal he was in had sat up… if its head was where he thought it was. To be honest, he wasn't sure. "Undevar," he muttered under his breath. "That's our cue. Let's get out of these damned things."

"Hmph," Undevar grunted. Vesemir heard ruffling as the Bear struggled to wrestle his way out of the pelts. "Was fixing to take a kip if that took any longer."

"Are you kidding?" Vesemir replied, also trying to free himself. "I was feeling like the main to a Sunday roast."

When the men had finally kicked the last of the pelts off, they quickly unlocked the cage and slipped out. Vesemir turned to lock the cage back up. "Hope no one notices that these things lost a bit of weight."

"Ah, who'd even be able to tell?" Undevar dismissed. "Come on, pup. We need to get inside and find Theila."

Between getting Theila back and taking down Mila, Undevar had hardly talked about anything else. Then again, Vesemir knew he couldn't have understood what the Bear was going through. He had yet to lose someone that close to him.

They left the cart behind and quickly entered the castle through a small door that led to the servants' quarters. Thankfully, no one was around to notice them as they came indoors.

"I'll search around for Theila and find out who exactly Gloria saw through that megascope," Undevar told him quietly. "You head up to the throne room."

"You want us to split up?" Vesemir said. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"We hang around together, we'll sure as shite get noticed," Undevar hissed back. "Soon as we both find what we're looking for, we meet back outside."

"Next to the pile of shit?"

"Aye."

"And what if either of us runs into trouble?"

"We're witchers, pup. We _are_ the trouble. The swords on your back aren't just for show. But…" Undevar's eyes darkened as he added. "If you run into Mila, do what you need to in order to protect yourself. But leave her to _me."_

They parted ways. Though Vesemir was nervous, he was more worried about the Bear. Out of the two, Undevar was the more likely to get noticed. And part of him wondered if Undevar would even bother to keep himself hidden—he seemed so hell-bent on killing Mila, he'd take down the entire castle. 'If that's the case,' Vesemir told himself, 'you need to be ready for the fallout too.'

Sneaking through the castle was surprisingly and unnervingly easy. It was mostly empty, with only an occasional guard passing by. Those were easy to hide from, as none of them were on any sort of alert. Today, after all, was supposed to be just like any other normal day.

And finding the throne room was simple too—it was behind the big doors at the end of the big hallway. Eerily, the place was barren. Vesemir expected guards to be flanking the doors, but there wasn't a soul in sight. Come to think of it, the closer he'd gotten here, the fewer guards there were. It was almost as if they were avoiding this part of the castle.

It was easy to tell why. Even as he crept along the wall of the grand hallway, casting suspicious glances over his shoulder, Vesemir felt his skin crawl with goose bumps. The air was thick with something that leaked dread into him. There was something very, very wrong here.

Once Vesemir reached the doors, he shot once last look over his shoulder at the bare hallway. He was just about to push his way into the throne room when he heard footsteps approaching. Panicked, the Wolf looked around and quickly hid in a shadowy alcove between two pillars. Whoever was coming smelled of a sweet, flowery perfume.

'Mila,' Vesemir guessed, daring a peek at the person walking down the hallway. But when he saw her, he froze with shock. It wasn't Mila Brotze.

The woman walked past where he hid without noticing him. In fact, she seemed strangely disconnected with her surroundings as she made her way towards the throne room. Vesemir could only stare as she pushed through the doors and disappeared inside.

What was going on? Was it some sort of trick? If Vesemir hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. He recognized that woman.

The last time he had seen her was when Undevar cradled her lifeless body in his arms.

* * *

 _Ash to ash, dust to dust_

 _Copper teardrops turn to rust_

 _Hold your heart as you hit the ground_

 _Holding on, holding on_

 _Just a little bit longer_

 _Holding on, holding on_

 _Oh, you gotta be stronger_

"Hold on"—Halcyon Skies


	66. Chapter 66 - The Necromancer

Loud, hurried steps scuffed loudly against the floor just as the throne room doors closed, followed by a _"Theila!"_ that ricocheted off the walls like a blast of Aard.

The booming shout made Vesemir cringe. So much for stealth. Now if the castle hadn't been aware of anything suspicious, it sure as hell was now. Vesemir dared to poke his head out further as Undevar hurried past his hiding spot. The Wolf was on the verge of calling out to him, but something made him keep silent. He only watched as Undevar shoved one of the heavy doors open and charged inside. Vesemir thought he was imagining things, but the door seemed to shut faster this time—like something sentient trapping him within.

"Theila, wa—!" The Bear's words were cut off from Vesemir's ears as the door slammed shut. With a sweeping glance to ensure the coast was clear, he emerged from the pillar's shadow. Vesemir rushed to the door, but stopped short and hesitated just as he placed a hand flat on its surface. Taking a moment to deliberate, he looked around.

The words of the guard that had been with Lelyn returned to his mind. "See that window? That's the room to Lord Cadogan's throne." The Wolf's orange eyes fell on the open window to his right. Stepping back from the door, he rushed to the opening. A quick leap vaulted him over. As he fell out of the castle window, he kept his grip on the sill and twisted his body around so that the balls of his feet hit the outside wall. Vesemir glanced up at his target and sorely hoped that Lelyn's tour guide had moved them further on by now.

* * *

He turned the corner just as the throne room door shut. Confusion at the impossible sight he'd seen lingered on the edges of his mind, pushed aside by the overwhelming need to go after her. "Theila!" he called out again, though it was no use.

Undevar stormed down the wide corridor. He ignored the sinking sensation in his stomach that seemed to grow with every step he took towards the throne room. His baser instinct—that gut feeling telling him to turn back—didn't matter now. Not when he had just been presented with the hope that Theila was somehow still alive.

He came upon the doors and pushed. They were heavy, and the way the hinges grated made him want to clench his teeth. Undevar pushed through the gap and into the throne room. It was dark.

"Theila, wait! How—?" His words died abruptly in the cold air. He stared at the opposite end of the room to who sat at the throne. At the duke of Vasconia.

Windows lined the entire room on either side, though only the one nearest the throne was open. The streams of light that poured in just barely missed the duke in an ironic manner. He sat in his seat, his hands occasionally convulsing in weak spasms on the armrests and his head limply twitching from side to side in the faintest of movements. Undevar could see his entire skeleton, on account of the rest of his decomposed body having liquidized into a gray mass that glued him to the throne.

The witcher took a step forward. "What…?" The rest of his words failed him.

The jaw of the duke's skull opened and closed, and eerily a voice came from—though a voice that only existed by the aid of some otherworldly force.

 _"I am duke… eternal…"_

Off to the side of the throne stood Theila, still like a waiting attendant. Undevar tore his eyes from the decaying duke to her. The sorceress's eyes stared vacantly ahead as he walked towards her. She hadn't reacted at all to the witcher's presence.

Undevar's hand came up and pressed down on the medallion that thrummed heavily amidst the folds of his cloak. "Necromancy," he growled under his breath. His eyes suddenly switched between Theila and the duke. A dark realization brewed in his mind. "No…" he said softly. "Theila… you're not… you're…"

"Stone cold dead."

Undevar felt his body seize up, as though invisible ice had gripped his entire body and frozen his muscles. He was rotated around as Mila walked casually down the length of the throne room, holding the scepter in one hand and gently bouncing the pale stone against the other. "My, my," she mused. "A nosy little witcher, aren't you? I should have known a dimwit like you would come back. And for what?" As she passed Undevar, he noticed that she had swapped her extravagant necklace for a simple pale stone on a silver chain. Mila stopped in front of Theila. "For you, my dear? Now that's devotion. Men like him are hard to come by. Aren't you happy to see your beloved witcher?"

Her eyes still stared at nothing, though her lips parted and a whispered, "Yes," came through them. The sound ripped through Undevar.

Mila giggled jovially. "Oh, you're so cute! Just you wait, another two or so weeks, and he won't be happy to see _you_." She gave Theila's nose a playful tap. "It was around that time when the duke stopped looking so much his handsome self." She turned back to look at him. "Now that's a sight to make you lose your appetite, isn't it?"

"Damn _witch!"_ Undevar snapped. "What have you done to her?"

"You should be on your knees thanking me, witcher," Mila said, looking back at Undevar. "You saw for yourself—her light had gone out. I've merely put the candle back into the lantern, so to speak. Well…" A hand came up and delicately stroked the necklace's pale gem. "With the help of a little magic, of course. But necromancy isn't perfect. Once the ties are cut, they're cut. Though kept here by magic, your dear Theila is dead through and through. Nature will take its course and that body you were so fond of will rot away… and all the while, the candle remains trapped inside."

Undevar fought against his formless restraints. His swords were on his back—just one little whisk away—and Mila was standing _right there!_ Even as he wrenched as hard as he could, his body didn't so much as twitch.

"Why would you do this to her?"

"To keep Vintrica off my back. Theila did such a good job assuring Gloria through the megascope that all was well and good. She got to speak to the duke. He was an odd fellow, but he gave her sound reasons as to why Ban Gleán's economy was so sluggish and to his peculiar behavior. He didn't give her any reasons to doubt him. Oh…" Mila quizzically tilted her head and tapped her chin, "But for some odd reason, that Bear witcher ran off. Left the city in quite a hurry. Something about the Path… I don't know. How can you tell with those witchers?"

Undevar's eyes flickered over to the duke. He still sat there, twitching in his throne and opening and closing his jaw with soft, unsettling clacks. "And Cadogan—."

Mila suddenly cut him off with a sharp laugh. "Oh, I nearly forgot!" she cackled. "You still think Lord Cadogan is alive."

"He's not," Undevar growled, "because you've used your damn magic and—."

"The one you see sitting there is not Lord Cadogan," Mila said, stepping over to the throne and standing over the spasming corpse. "This here is his father—Lord Urien. Cadogan is dead by his father's orders. After all, why would there be any need for an heir when you can be an eternal duke?"

"And everyone is just okay with that?"

"Oh, no one but us is aware. The execution of his son and that pesky wife—I carried that out myself in private. Everyone else is just as dimwitted as you, believing Cadogan superseded his father."

"Urien had his own family killed?" Undevar said in disbelief. "Then why start one in the first place?"

"Well," Mila said, a slight tease in her voice. "It was never his intention at first. I might have had something to do with his little change of heart." She turned away from the duke and walked slowly over to Undevar. As she circled around to his front, she reached out and traced his shoulder. "It's amazing how easily a mind can bend to little whispers. Eventually Lord Urien became obsessed with the idea of staying as duke forever, and I provided him the avenue to become just that." She laughed airily. "Though I don't think this is what he had in mind. Oh well—should have read the fine print."

"So now the seat of power is yours," Undevar said. "What's with the necromancy, then? Why not just kill Urien and keep up the charade?"

"Vintrica has this funny little rule," Mila said, "that an adept advisor shall not take on a controlling role over the position of power she serves. The Council takes that rule very seriously. Serious enough to put a curse on any of their advisors that binds them to the ruling line. If, for whatever reason, the line ends and the adept advisor does not soon reestablish another, the curse takes her life. So you see…" Mila draped a hand over her chest. "My dear Lord Urien is still here, and I am still his advisor. No harm done."

"Do you really think I'm dumb enough to accept that?"

"Currently, yes." Mila sighed deeply. "Though now that you've met the duke, it's a shame what I'll have to do to you. You really are a fine specimen of a man." She stepped closer to him, a wicked gleam suddenly lighting her eyes. A hand snaked up Undevar's chest, creeping through the collar of the cloak to reach his skin. "Although, perhaps I'll keep you. Leave your frozen body in my bed for me to return to every night and reap whatever pleasure I like from it. Oh, maybe I'll have Theila there to watch through those glassy eyes of hers while she wilts away." Her laugh this time was cruel. "I'm getting excited just thinking about it."

"Don't…" Her voice was still a whisper—all she could muster. "Undevar… run…"

"He can't, my dear," Mila said. "He's mine now."

From the throne, the dead duke hissed, _"I am… eternal."_

"Let him… go…" Undevar saw her blink. Slowly, Theila turned her head towards Mila.

Mila snapped her fingers. Theila's face turned forward, and her eyes became as blank as before. "You only move when I tell you to," she said sharply. Suddenly, her head jerked to the side. Undevar heard the familiar crack of a spring. A hand came up, fingers spread wide. The crossbow bolt came to a stop just an inch before Mila's palm.

"What do we have here?" she said, her voice shrilly with anger. The bolt dropped heavily onto the ground, and behind where it had been was an immobile Vesemir with his sword still poised for a strike in his hand. "Another nuisance—coming out of the walls like rats. Hmm, a Kaer Morhen one. Pity—you came all this way just to die." She flicked her hand and sent the witcher flying. He slammed against the wall, still trapped in Mila's grip.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Undevar's attention. Unable to turn his head, he looked to the side as much as he could. Theila was slowly lifting her arm. Her hand hung limp at the wrist. One finger rose weakly. Undevar felt his shoulder move, free from Mila's spell. "Just a bit more, Theila," he whispered. "Hurry." He looked back to Vesemir.

"You'll beg for death before I'm done with you!" One of the Wolf's arms suddenly bent backwards at the elbow. The horrifying crack and Vesemir's agonized shout echoed in the chamber.

Undevar felt the spell weaken by another notch. It was all he needed. With one last push, he broke through the paralysis. He lunged, aiming straight for it. Mila turned. She had tried to guess what he was trying to do, and she guessed wrong.

The spell flew over his head as Undevar ducked down. He reached out and closed his hands around the scepter. As he rose, he wrenched it out of her hands and grabbed her wrist as she tried to shoot off another spell. With a harsh yank, he pulled her around to face the duke in his throne. The scepter flipped in his hand, end out, and was thrust through her stomach.

He heard Mila give a hollow gasp. Undevar let go of her wrist and stepped back. Mila paused for a second, and with unsteady steps, slowly turned around. Her hands cradled the bloodied tip that jutted from her front. She scoffed weakly. "Nuisances, all of you," she said in a strained voice. "Look what you've done." Suddenly, she stumbled forward. Undevar caught her. Mila let out a sigh, which shot anger through him.

He lifted a hand. The sorceress's eyes followed it. It came up to her throat, clutched the white stone, and snapped the chain with a sharp tug. Mila reached up for it, but Undevar pushed her hand away. "Rot," he told her, and shoved her back. Her body hit the ground.

It was then Undevar felt as though he could breathe for the first time. He heard Vesemir grunt as he rose to his feet. The Wolf was holding his crooked arm tight against his side.

Finally able to think straight, Undevar asked, "Doing alright, pup?"

"Just peachy—fuck!" Vesemir grunted through gritted teeth as he set his arm back with a sharp jerk. "After a vial of Swallow and an hour, I'll be swinging with this arm again no problem."

 _"Eternal…"_

Both of them looked towards the throne. "Death isn't the worst thing to befall someone here," Vesemir remembered. "It seems Lelyn heard right."

"I'm not familiar with this kind of necromancy," Undevar said. He looked down and opened his hands at the stone nestled in it. It bathed the dark leather of his glove in its faint, milky glow. "These are like anchors... binding them here. She always had that scepter with her."

Vesemir walked to Mila's body. He tugged the scepter free and examined the large white stone at its end. "My medallion's really going off around this thing," he noted. He glanced up at the duke. "I think," he said, "it's high time Ban Gleán had a change of leadership." With a swing, Vesemir smashed the stone into the wall. The pale stone shattered in an explosion that threw shards through the air like raindrops, leaving behind a lingering white glow. As the white mist rose, the duke suddenly gave a deathly rattle. His skull lolled, jaw falling slack, and another streak of mist rose from it to join the first. Once combined, the glow dissipated.

When all was silent again, Undevar realized what needed to be done next. Stubbornly, his hand closed defensively around the necklace. Vesemir turned to him. "Undevar," he said.

The Bear glowered at him. "No," he said firmly. Vesemir stared at him for a second longer before turning to Theila and walking towards her. Undevar felt his heart jump. Before he knew it, he had his sword drawn. He moved quickly to block Vesemir's way. "Don't you fucking touch her," he snarled.

"Are you crazy? Look at her, Undevar! Look at what she's been reduced to! I thought you wouldn't want her to stay like this!" Vesemir held a hand out. "Give me the stone."

"You try and I'll kill you, you damn runt! Don't think I won't!" Undevar barked, taking a menacing step towards Vesemir. The Wolf took one back.

"I can't believe you," he said. "Are you really going to make me do this?"

"I can't lose her!"

"She's dead!"

"Damn runt!" Undevar flew at him. Vesemir managed to duck under the path of the swinging greatsword. Instead of bringing the weight of the weapon back around for another strike, Undevar dropped it and shot a hand up to seize the Wolf by the throat. Vesemir reached up with his remaining arm and pulled at Undevar's grip, pushing back against the ground with the soles of his boots.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter at all. He'd killed so many people who didn't deserve to die. What was one more? She was dead and it was his fault. Wasn't! She was still here, and this fucking runt was going to hurt her. He was protecting her now, as he should have.

There came a quiet whisper from behind him. "Let me go."

The rage drained from Undevar's face. As if broken from another spell, he quickly released Vesemir and dropped his arms. The Wolf gasped and stumbled back, clutching his red throat. Undevar squeezed his eyes shut as she whispered again. "Please… let me go."

His slit eyes flew open. "I can't!" he suddenly cried out. "I can't! It's not fair!"

"She's a disconnect soul trapped in her own corpse. She's scared. Do it for her."

Undevar drew in a shaky breath. Everything he was now was because of her. And now he was going to be… alone. Never before had that word been so daunting. He looked down at the stone in his hands, and then up at her. Those olive eyes. They were just as he remembered, and yet somehow colorless at the same time.

"Not here," he said. "We have to take her back to Vintrica. When she goes, she should be home."

Vesemir deliberated. "Fair enough," he said. "How are we going to get back?"

"Contact the sorceresses with Mila's megascope."

"Do you know how to use one?"

Undevar looked at Theila. Without Mila to control her, Undevar wasn't sure she'd be able to handle it in this state. But it was all they could do. "Can you?" he asked softly.

"Take me."

Gently, he lifted her and bundled her in his arms. "Cold as ice," he said heavily.

"I'll make sure the way is clear," Vesemir offered, leaving the throne room to go ahead. He seemed to leave a little too quickly. The air in this tomb was suffocating. Undevar followed slowly after him, feeling the weight of her on his arms as he walked. Somehow, he could have sworn he'd done this before.

He turned and looked back when he heard the throne room doors slam behind him. As he headed down the corridor, Undevar humored him with the joyless thought that this was supposed to have been a simple task. How naïve they had been—drinking wine and laughing with death in the horizon.

'Maybe that's the better way to go,' Undevar thought. 'Happy. Ignorant. That's the lucky way to go.'

* * *

He didn't like the atmosphere that plagued the ivory halls of Vintrica upon his return. Somehow, he felt as if it was his fault. Well, the burden was his to carry, whether he liked or not.

A team of sorceresses was sent to Ban Gleán to assess the situation and clean up the mess. The entire Council was present as Undevar carried her in. Apprentices peeked with ashen faces before their mistresses sent them away.

He carried her through the castle, never uttering a single word, to her room where he laid her down on her own bed. There, he sat at the edge and stared forward. A sorceress hovered a hand over Theila, and then turned back to Gloria. "Mila Brotze was using necromancy to get around the curse," she told the headmistress. "We'll need to consider how to get rid of this loophole."

They talked as though she were already gone. As if it was already resolute. Undevar knew they were right—forward thinking—but it frustrated him all the same. First Vesemir, and now them. They weren't afraid because they wouldn't be left behind like he would.

Brielle was the first to dare voice the question. "What happened?"

Undevar continued to stare ahead. "Reason I went," he said slowly, "was to make sure this wouldn't happen, wasn't it?"

"Don't talk like that."

"You want me to say this wasn't my fault then?"

Brielle didn't answer, unwilling to voice the accusation. But the silence did it for her. Instead of answering, she said, "Her eyes are still open." She reached forward

Undevar caught her wrist before she could touch Theila. Brielle pulled her hand out of his grip. "Your people, the islanders, place coins over the eyes of their dead to keep them closed as a sign of safe passage and respect."

"She's not…"

"She is only kept here by necromancy—a very undignified way to treat one's soul." Brielle's gaze softened. "Please. Theila was my closest friend growing up. I can't see her like this."

"You don't have to."

Brielle turned her head and Undevar's eyes flicked up at the hooded figure that came into the room. Reaching up, he pulled the hood away and let the sunlight touch his red skin. Following him was his sister. The sorceresses crowding the room made way for the two as they slowly approached the bed. Rhudda's golden eyes were clouded with suspicion as she watched Pascal. Undeterred, her brother continued until he stood right in front of the witcher.

"If you so desire," Pascal said, "there is a way to bring her back." At his words, Undevar lifted her head. Rhudda's wary look suddenly became a glare.

"Pascal," she hissed. "Think about what it is you are doing."

"I merely offer the witcher the choice, Sister," Pascal replied, turning his head to return her glower out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you?" Rhudda replied in a low hiss.

"Choice? What choice? There's a way to save her?" Undevar demanded hotly. Rhudda glanced at him, shot her brother one last look of disdain, and turned to leave the room.

"Yes," Pascal replied as soon as his sister had left. "There is a way."

 _"How?"_

Pascal's brilliant eyes lowered to the floor. He turned his head a few degrees to the side. "Forgive me, friends," he said softly. "As the choice is his, so shall his ears be my only audience."

Brielle gave Undevar one last glance before following the rest of the sorceresses out. Undevar was a little surprised they accepted Pascal's words so willingly. Then again, they of all people would know the power behind a dragon's decree.

Once the room was emptied, Pascal continued. "There is one," he said, "purported to be as old as time itself—among the first beings to pass into this world during the Conjunction. Her name is Gwyliwr."

"The dragon near Skellige," Undevar recalled.

"So you remember Rhudda's mention of her," Pascal said, a touch of surprise in his voice. "Gwyliwr harbors powers unlike any other in this world. She is known as Cinnidh Atha'rra—in your tongue, Bender of Fate."

"She changes fate?" Despite Undevar's determination, the witcher in him grew uneasy. "What does that mean exactly?"

"I haven't the faintest clue," Pascal admitted. "I suspect only Gwyliwr truly knows. But as I told Rhudda, I merely offer you the choice. Before you commit yourself, I must lay the obvious out for you—something of this caliber will likely come at a heavy cost."

Undevar looked down at the glowing stone in his hands. To him, it had suddenly grown as delicate as an egg. "Price? I'm a witcher, mate—everything I do, every dance I have with death, is priced. I'm no stranger to it. You sure this bender of fate can bring back Theila? All of her?"

"She makes the power of the djinns seem like child's play. I have faith."

Undevar scoffed bitterly. "Faith's been nothing but shite to me," he growled. "Fine. It's time to give home a little visit."

By Pascal's orders, the sorceresses opened a portal to Skellige for quick passage. Undevar hardly had a chance to take in the familiarity of the isles—the salty breeze and crashing waves—before Pascal quickly put him to work finding a boat. After Lelyn's services, Undevar didn't have two coins to rub together—not that his ducats would've done much good here. Instead, he landed a decent boat with the help of Axii, telling himself that the ends justified the means.

"To think," Undevar grunted as he hoisted up the sails one pull at a time, "that there was an ancient, almighty being under Bear's nose this entire time. Hell, Valdre would've shit himself at the opportunity to mount her skull over his fireplace."

"It is not coincidence that Gwyliwr has evaded the detection of Skellige's witchers for centuries," Pascal said with a hint of contempt in his tone. He sat on the pier atop a crate, his hood raised protectively over his head. "Her whereabouts are impossible for mere mortals to discover."

"Hm," Undevar mumbled. "This Gwyliwr mind a little company? Place like that sounds like paradise." He gave his newly tied knot a securing tug, straightened up, and tapped the mast with his knuckles. "We're up and ready to go. You riding in here or…?" He trailed off and fluttered a hand up towards the sky.

Pascal rose. The boat rocked as the morphed dragon stepped into it. "Ecosystems are delicate, easily disturbed things—those of humans are no different," he said. "The people of Skellige have not seen my kind in a long, long while. I think it best to keep the equilibrium as it is and assume my true form when we are out to sea and well out of view."

"Suit yourself," Undevar said, untying the boat from the pier. With a little kick off the planks, the boat was set adrift. As the distance from the shore grew, Undevar couldn't help but glance towards the bundle laid towards the bow. He'd insisted wrapping her in that blanket. Years on the Continent hadn't made Undevar forget that the winds over the water got cold. Waves of nostalgia crashed over him as he took a seat by the tiller and opened his compass. "Give me a direction," he told Pascal, watching the needle of the compass wiggle on its stand.

"I don't know." Undevar looked up. Pascal had sat down and was looking out towards the horizon. "Just take us out to water."

"I like knowing where to point my bow," Undevar said as the sails fluttered and caught wind.

"Are Skelligers not at home over the water? Sailing wherever the wind takes them?"

Undevar grunted. "Stereotype," he muttered. "Any Skelliger knows a directionless journey is a good way to get stranded at sea." His eyes climbed higher to the sky. Though invisible at this hour, he knew the stars were there like silent watchers. He'd heard of those able to navigate simply with the guidance of the heavens. It was a dying art that had been lost over time, aided by the invention of the compass. Only a few old, seasoned Skelligers still held onto that skill. Perhaps, Undevar thought, he'd find one to teach him one day.

"The location of the Matriarch cannot be described by directions; cannot be drawn on a map," Pascal said. A gust of wind pushed back his hood, though he didn't bother to pull it back up. "She can only be found by her own kind—guided by nothing but the wind."

"Sounds shady to me," Undevar said.

"Just because you do not understand it, does not make it 'shady,'" Pascal said. The bow hit a wave, sending a burst of water crashing into the hull. Immediately, Undevar hopped onto his feet, grabbing Theila and carrying her back to the stern with him. As he checked the inner layers of the blanket, he heard Pascal say, "Once, many years ago, she confessed to me her belief that you would never love her."

"I was difficult," Undevar admitted quietly. "But that never meant I didn't love her."

"It wasn't you. She thought she was cursed."

"Cursed?"

Instead of replying, Pascal turned wordlessly towards the bow. Apparently, he only wanted to leave it at that.

 _Something happened to her long ago_. Undevar nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Pascal's voiceless words in his head. He hadn't known dragons could utilize telemancy, though it didn't at all come at a surprise.

'What?'

 _A man, one who was supposed to be her father, attacked her_.

As he listened to Pascal's words, Undevar thought back to the fog over the water. He and Theila had eventually told one another what the mist had made them see. She had mentioned something like that. 'Aye, and the sorceresses stopped him before—.'

 _No._

He stopped. Undevar could have sworn his heart did too at that moment. '… What?'

 _The mist showed her a parody of reality, as it did to you. The truth is, the headmistress was not able to interfere until after the fact._

Reflexively, his arms tightened around the bundle he held. 'So he… he… I never knew.'

 _She did not think you needed to. She had the strength to put it far behind her. But…_ Undevar saw Pascal's head turn slightly, though not enough to look back. _For a while, it left her weary of intimacy. It took her a long time to accept the touch of a man. It took her even longer to be able to love, and when she did it was never reciprocated. She thought that incident had left a curse on her._ Pascal squared his shoulders and turned back towards the bow. _And she thought you would be no exception_.

'But I am.'

 _But you are_.

'Why are you telling me this?' Suddenly, Undevar scowled. 'If she didn't want me to know, what makes you think this is your secret to tell?'

 _I know you think this a gross intrusion of privacy. I won't deny that it is. But sometimes the judgment of humans is limited. You need to know—so you are aware that she needs you as much as you need her._ The dragon abruptly stood. "I think this is far enough," he said aloud. "Do not slow. I'll be just a moment."

"You're not going to—?"

The boat rocked heavily as Pascal dove into the water. Undevar turned his face away from the splash as the vessel whizzed past it. "Fucking dragons," he muttered under his breath, "and their theatrics."

With the sunlight glinting off of the water, he couldn't see much past the surface. A few seconds passed, and Undevar heard a deep rumble shake from within the sea. He looked back just as the water exploded upward in a flurry of red. Undevar looked up as the sky darkened and ducked his head down as seawater from the dragon came down over him in torrents. He leaned forward, shielding Theila from the downpour.

 _Follow closely, witcher_ , he heard Pascal tell him. The dragon flapped his wings once more before extending them to their complete span. An upward draft kept him suspended. Undevar watched for a moment, and then saw the membranes tilt as a separate gust suddenly hit Pascal's wings. It carried him to the left. Undevar reached back and tilted the tiller to follow after the dragon. He glanced down at his compass. They were starting to head east. Funny. He figured this bender of fate would've been out to the west—where all things that didn't make sense were.

Whatever winds were carrying Pascal, they were erratic. Undevar followed him as best he could. Sometimes the dragon would turn lazily in certain directions—other times, the winds turned him so sharply Undevar had to crank the tiller as far as it would go.

Try as he might have, Undevar should have known tracking their path was pointless. At some point, he had glanced down at his compass only to do a double take. The northern point of the needle was angled towards the top right quadrant of the compass. It had pointed that way earlier, but they had taken a turn since then. Frowning, Undevar shifted himself so that he was pointed in a different direction. The needle wouldn't move.

With a sigh, he shut the compass. "We're almost there," he told Theila. She stared up at him with blank eyes. He touched her cheek, which was colder than the winds around them. "I don't know what it's like to be trapped in there. I'm sorry—maybe I should have let you go. But I'm selfish, Theila. I…" He trailed off, unable to find the excuse to justify himself.

"I love you too." She only whispered but he heard it.

 _We're here_. Undevar looked up. Sitting in the horizon ahead of them was a large island. The shadow on the water darkened as Pascal flew lower. _Slow_ _the vessel_.

Gently, Undevar set Theila aside and rose to slack the sails. The boat began to slow into a drift. As they neared the island, Undevar found himself having to lift his head higher and higher to look at it. It ascended sharply from the water like a mountain. Trees and greenery grew from its wide top. Dotting the water around it were thin pillars of rock.

Pascal had given the order to drop the sails a little prematurely. Undevar had sailed enough to know this. The boat drifted to a halt just short of even the pillars. He was on the verge of raising the sails back up when Pascal came swooping overhead.

 _Halt, witcher_. The dragon landed swiftly on a pillar. It was a rather small perch for him, and Undevar wondered why he hadn't gone to the island instead.

He got his answer quickly and shockingly. Before Undevar's very eyes, the entire island itself began to shift. One end—formerly what the witcher had presumed to be a peninsula—lifted from the water. Undevar realized it was an elongated neck that swiveled around and brought with it an enormous head the size of Pascal's entire body. Vegetation and streams of water trailed down from the ridges of the dragon's head.

Immediately, Pascal bowed his head until it nearly touched the water. Reptilian eyes surveyed the red dragon, and then focused on the boat. Undevar quickly glanced at Pascal and lowered himself down onto his knees.

 _A man with genes twisted by toxins._ Gwyliwr's words echoed in his head. _And a woman laced with the dark magic of death._ Her eyes came to Pascal. _Child_ , she addressed him, _what do you bring me?_

 _Matriarch, I have told the witcher of you. He wishes to undo what has been done._

Gwyliwr looked back at Undevar. Maybe he should have dipped his head in reverence like Pascal had, but he found that all he could do was stare in amazement. Slowly, the Matriarch lowered her head down to the boat until the tip of her ridged snout hovered just above the bow. _And has he told you_ , she asked Undevar, _everything?_

"Matriarch," Undevar addressed uneasily, "he's told me you are able to bend fate."

 _Bend, yes. But I see that your perception of me is still wrong. You think me the changer of fate. Fate is the master of us all, Undevar of Tor Bhiethe. It is an untouchable stream of water that falls from the heavens to earth—to end it would be to end the very fabric of reality itself. I can merely alter the stream; bend its direction. But it will always fall from the heavens to earth—nothing can change that._

"All I want," Undevar said, "is to bring her back. Give her another chance."

 _Show her to me_.

At the matriarch's command, Undevar rose to delicately unwrap Theila. He lifted the sorceress up and turned back to Gwyliwr. Silently, the matriarch examined her. Undevar felt the gentle breeze of her steady breathing.

 _There is a way_.

* * *

The end of the memory was so abrupt, it left Kozin confused and disoriented. He opened his eyes, completely unaware of where or who he was. The recollection was slow and unsure. He felt as though he hadn't been himself for ages. Kozin squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them. The woman across the table from him watched him.

"I'm sorry," Theila told him. "I should have warned you."

Speechless, Kozin stared at her—this person who, after everything he'd seen, had suddenly become a stranger. And yet, she was still the same—still the woman he'd grown up with.

Theila smiled gently. "I'm still here," she said.

"But Ban Gleán…"

"It seems Gwyliwr graced Undevar with his wish," Theila said.

"What happened to the memory? Why did it end so suddenly?"

"There's a hole in that particular memory," Theila answered. "The rest of the meeting with the Matriarch is entirely blank—missing, like a ripped page. Undevar told me that Gwyliwr removed the memory herself, wishing to preserve her secrets."

"Hm," Kozin grunted. "Not like any of us could change fate if we wanted to."

"Bend."

"Whatever."

* * *

He watched her anxiously as the boat cut smoothly through the water. Despite what the matriarch had said, Theila still hadn't moved.

"Patience, Undevar," Pascal said, sitting in the boat with him.

"Don't ask a Bear to be patient," Undevar shot back, his eyes still glued to her pale face. He reached down and pressed his fingers to her neck. There was still no pulse. No heartbeat. "Why hasn't she come back?" Theila wouldn't even move now. Panicked, Undevar wondered for a moment if Gwyliwr had erased the necromancy and left him with just her corpse.

He pulled the pale stone from his pouch. It was still glowing and—no, now the light within it was starting to fade. The sight drove Undevar into a further state of fear. He clutched the stone tighter, trying to hold the light in. "No—no!"

"Don't be irrational," Pascal said. "Look."

The light completely vanished. She stirred in his arms—only a slight movement. Undevar looked down. Olive eyes flew open. Her back arched heavily as she drew in a deep, shuddering gasp. Undevar heard the muffled pumping of her heart, and his own jumped.

"Theila! Oh gods, Theila!" He dipped down to kiss her, but suddenly his vision was obscured by the hand that clamped over his face and pushed his head back up.

"Give her a chance to catch her breath," Pascal scolded. Suddenly, Undevar felt the cloak around his neck tighten as Theila seized it and yanked him back down. He panted with her when their lips parted. Her hand rested on the side of his face.

"I swear we've been here before," Theila said breathlessly, "just reversed."

Undevar chuckled. "I could have sworn I had a sense of déjà vu."

A clearing of the throat brought the both of them back. Looking up, they were reminded that they weren't alone in the boat. "Pascal," Theila said, sitting up. The dragon raised a hand. "Go easy," he told her. "I will return to Vintrica to deliver the news. Sail to the nearest island. You two will stay there. Rest, at least for a few days, before attempting to open a portal."

Pascal assumed his true form and circled a wide path to avoid the proximity of islands. The boat reached a quiet stretch of shore on Faroe, where they settled down onto the pale sand. Undevar held an arm protectively around Theila while she leaned heavily against him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her. "We can head for the nearest village if you're peckish."

"Tired, mostly," Theila said. "Light-headed. Let's just sit here for a while."

For a while, the only sound was the crashing of the waves and the distant shrill of gulls. Undevar dared to lower his eyes in her direction, thinking back to the private conversation with Pascal.

From the way she carried herself, Undevar would have never guessed something that terrible had happened to Theila. And just the thought made Undevar want to lift the man responsible from the grave just to put him back in it. But Theila wanted it behind her. If that's what she wished, he wasn't ever going to bring it up.

Slow, even breathing told Undevar that Theila had fallen asleep against him. He sat still until nightfall and only woke her up because it was starting to get cold. They headed further inland and found a small inn to stay at. When Theila had settled into the room, Undevar went back out to get food. Theila, upon seeing the heaped tray, insisted at first that she wasn't hungry but then cleared the plate.

When they lay down for the night, Theila was immediately out like a light again. Undevar stayed up for a while longer, listening to and then falling asleep to the sound of her heart.

The next morning, they went back out to walk along the beach. Theila joked that this was like a romantic getaway. Almost as if answering her words, they found a small cabin on an isolated stretch of beach. Undevar could tell it was empty. Curiosity got the better of both of them, and they decided to take a quick peek inside. Within, one of the things they found inside the cozy litte home were shelves lined with colorful seashells.

"These are incredible," Theila said, delicately lifting a conical shell. It had spikes bordering its rim like a flower and flutes running around its circumference. Stripes of brilliant green and gold ran down from its point. "I've never seen shells like this. Where do you think they came from?"

"Don't know," Undevar replied, looking over another shell that was completely silver. "Can't even think of any mollusks that would live in these things." A small, glossy object on a lower shelf suddenly caught his eye. Undevar crouched down to get a better look. He reached out and plucked up the hard golden scale. _Scales_. He looked solemnly up at Theila as unpleasant memories returned at the sight of the scale. Theila's face also fell.

"Don't we ever get a break?" she asked softly. "Oh no, Undevar. Look at this." She picked up another scale that was resting on the same shelf—this one emerald and much smaller. "From a young one?"

"My daughter," came an answer. Theila yipped and Undevar immediately jumped to his feet, one arm held protectively over her while the other reached over his shoulder. Immediately, his grip loosened from his sword hilt when he saw who was standing at the doorway.

Iníomara looked slightly amused at the reaction she had garnered. "I was worried when I heard people in here," she said, "but I'm glad to see the both of you again."

"And you, Iní," Theila replied, pushing Undevar's arm down. "I didn't know you lived here."

"We spend most of our days in the water," Iníomara said. "But at times, Julian misses land."

"Where is he?"

"He should be here soon. His hands are quite full at the moment."

"With children!" Theila guessed. "You said this was your daughter's scale?"

"Yes, it was back from when she started shedding her infant scales. Julian kept one as a memento."

"That's so sweet," Theila sighed.

Undevar heard a sound outside and went to the window. He saw a child—no more than two or three years old—running up the beach towards the house on unsteady legs. "Your bairn?" Undevar asked. Even from the window, he could tell that the naked babe was very clearly a boy as he came racing and laughing gleefully.

Someone was shouting after the child. Julian came running up, having just finished pulling up a pair of trousers, and scooped the cackling boy up. Undevar boomed out a laugh at the sight of him. "Fuck me!" he said, walking out of the cabin. "That runt finally became a man." Louder, he shouted, "Ho there, wee pup! Look at you!"

Julian looked at the source of the voice and froze when he saw Undevar. "Oh… Oh!" he said in disbelief.

"Grew yourself a right fine beard, didn't you?" Undevar remarked. "And some meat on your bones!"

"Yeah," Julian said. "The water—well, there's a lot of currents to fight against."

The boy, who had stared at Undevar with eyes as wide as platters, suddenly pulled his thumb out of his mouth to loudly exclaim, "Hairy man!"

"Go inside, Aegin," Julian said, lowering the child to the ground. "Go to Mama."

"Mama, Mama!" the boy shouted at the top of his lungs as he scurried towards the cabin. Undevar watched him go before turning back to Julian. "Spritely one."

"Mmm," Julian agreed in a mumble. "The youngest with four older sisters."

"Five bairns? Mate, someone's been a little busy, hasn't he?"

"Well… if that's how you want to put it." Julian nodded towards the cabin, and the two of them headed back up towards it. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again, to be honest. It's been a while."

"Aye." Undevar thought back to the last time he'd seen the young man. Hell, it'd been a while, hadn't it? "Pup, I gave you a hard time—one you didn't rightly deserve."

"I think it helped in a way," Julian said. "You're awfully… different. It's almost scary."

"It is," Undevar sighed. "Can't tell you how many times I've gone to hell and back in these past ten years. To say it changed me would be dead understating it." They stepped into the cabin. Inside, Undevar found the little boy clothed and sitting in Theila's lap as she hugged him to her. She looked up when he walked in. "Look at him, Undevar!" she cooed. "Isn't he just precious?" Aegin was quietly sucking on his thumb again as he peered up at Theila with sea glass-blue eyes.

"Wee plump thing," he replied.

"Well he's got these squishy little cheeks." Theila gave one a gentle pinch. Aegin pulled his thumb out to loudly protest, "No!"

Undevar hesitated, and then turned to Iníomara. "You mind if we have a word?" he asked. He saw the mermaid's eyebrows rise, but she stood and replied, "Let's go." Undevar turned and headed outside so that they would be out of Theila's earshot.

* * *

Julian waited until the door closed behind them. "He's different," he told Theila. "Really different."

"He is," Theila replied, now bouncing Aegin in her lap. The boy giggled happily.

"What happened, exactly?"

Smiling, Theila looked up at Julian. "I placed a spell on him," she told him. "The oldest, most powerful spell of all." Her eyes lowered to Aegin. "Isn't that right, sweetie?"

* * *

 _I saw the sun begin to dim_

 _And felt that winter wind grow cold_

 _A man who learns who is there for him_

 _When the glitter fades and the walls won't hold_

' _Cause from the rubble_

 _What remains can only be what's true_

 _If all was lost_

 _There's more I gained_

' _Cause it led me back to you_

"From Now On"—Justin Paul & Benj Pasek


	67. Chapter 67 - Ascending the Chain

He was worried that the chance of him falling flat on his face would be very real, given how long he'd spent in a body and mind not his own. By contrast Theila surged ahead of him in sure, even steps.

As he passed by the windows, Kozin saw glimpses of the grass and the shore lying far beyond. He thought of the guild as it had been when Undevar was a boy—imagining the horrors of it became easier this time now that all that seemed to surround Kozin was ruin.

But he reached out with a hand and ran it against the wall, long forgotten memories resurfaced that returned the guild to the way he remembered it. As he passed by another window, Kozin saw the water and remembered the fishing trips taken when they were boys. He remembered the glistening bodies of sea bass pulled up by the hooks in their mouths. One had been so large it nearly wrenched Kozin out of the boat. And maybe he would have plunged face-first into the water had Andryk not hugged him by the waist and helped him wrestle the monstrous bass out.

He saw the beach and remembered early mornings kneeling on the powdery sand. Kozin stopped at the window, closing his eyes as a gentle breeze brushed his face. He could almost feel the presence of the man kneeling next to him, deep in meditation. _Slow, even breaths,_ the grandmaster would tell him. _That's it, laddie._

Kozin thought about the night he had bled from the neck because of the wound given to him by the woman that was supposed to love him. The grandmaster had showed his fury, true, but more out of concern. The anger had quickly been tempered and gave way to a gentle old man that had seen to his wound. Comforted him. When a boy had showed him vulnerability, Undevar had promised to be family.

Kozin couldn't help but remember that when that very same man had showed the same kind of vulnerability as a child—limping out of the blood-soaked arena with a shattered ankle—he had seen no trace of such compassion.

It was then Kozin opened his eyes. He noticed Theila patiently watching him. Kozin looked down, resting both hands on the windowsill. "I'm just now starting to realize," he said, "how much I took everything for granted."

"He never wanted your sympathy," Theila replied. "Why do you think he never told you? It would have done nothing but dredged up meaningless pain. All he ever wanted was to see you happy—to a parent, there is no greater joy than that."

"So," Kozin murmured. "I made him happy?"

"More than you know."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because…" A small, slender hand draped over Kozin's on the windowsill. "You've made me incredibly happy too."

The painful lump that suddenly rose in the witcher's throat was far from welcome. Kozin swallowed and stared out into the horizon, the back of his eyes growing warm.

"It's almost midday," Theila pointed out. "We should take him back to the others. I'm… I'm sorry for running off like I did."

"After everything the two of you have been through, how can I blame you?" Kozin looked down at their hands. "So is that all you want to show me?"

"What lies ahead is nearly three centuries of memories. But in those three hundred years, Undevar lived as himself—not as a puppet to Valdre. He found happiness in the things that mattered. He shed the kind of tears he wasn't ashamed of. He made friends that came and went, but what never left were the lessons each of them imparted on him—either directly or inherently. When he needed a break from the mud and monsters, I took him to far-off lands. He loved weddings, and so we attended several—content with the fact that we would only ever be guests to them. I taught him to waltz, and it's a miracle my feet survived the endeavor.

"Once we traveled to Ofir, where we met the man who would become Horsemaster Ruadh. The two of them worked on several contracts together for the Ofiri royal family, which allowed Undevar to become close to the sultan. They've very odd customs, the people in the deserts. During one of their feasts, they brought out palace courtesans with assortments of fruits on their backs to be eaten off of. Upon seeing them, Undevar had given me a certain look. He was teasing, of course, and so was I when I turned him into an apple when no one was around." Theila lowered her eyes. "I thought much of those days. I'm sure he did too."

"Wait," Kozin said as Theila's hand pulled away from his. "I need to know how it happened."

The sorceress didn't respond, staring at him with eyes that didn't hold a trace of confusion. Even then, her lips remained still. Reluctant. Finally, she said, "He was succeeded, just as grandmasters are."

"I asked him the same thing once, and he was just as you are now—tightlipped. Why?"

"Because it's not important," Theila said sternly, each word articulated like a punch.

 _"Not important?"_ Kozin echoed. "Give me one reason—just one—that wouldn't make it important!" The sorceress remained silent, and so he continued, "You know him better than anyone else. If Undevar knew the circumstances now, would he still keep that a secret? What could it possibly change?"

Theila stared at him for only a second longer before breaking her gaze away. She swept it over the stone around them. "It wouldn't change a thing," she muttered softly. "What's done is done. History will unjustly mar the memory of the last grandmaster of the School of Bear, but all he ever wanted was for those who loved him to know the true him. That was his last wish." Louder, she said, "Come with me, Kozin."

He followed her deeper into the keep, realizing that they were headed back to Freya's chamber where the grandmaster lay. Kozin didn't want to look, but it was the first thing he saw when he entered the chamber. Midday light poured from the open ceiling onto the altar at the far end.

Theila stopped just a few paces from the altar. Still facing it, she said, "Take a seat, Kozin. Now close your eyes. Deep breath. This is what happened to Valdre."

* * *

Happy. Ignorant. The lucky way to go. Any witcher would be a fool to think they could afford such luxury. Yet even as a surety, death remained just as much a mystery to a monster slayer as it was to anyone else.

Undevar saw it as an approaching boat, appearing in the horizon and drifting ever closer. It was only a matter of time before its bow would touch land, and a hand would extend out to the one waiting on the shore. And when the beckon came, Undevar set a course for Skellige.

He made one last stop to Mahakam. An evening was all he could afford to enjoy the dwarves' company. Then, as midnight drew near, Undevar isolated himself with Brimir and Galon to deliver his important message. He told them of his journey and what he intended to do once he reached the end of his destination. The other two Bears, men who had long since proven to be Undevar's true brothers, absorbed his words in solemn silence.

"If, by the end of this season, you do not hear back from me," Undevar said, "then that means I've failed to purge evil from this world. Do not look for me. Do not avenge me unless you believe you are ready. Friends, your lives are here, and it would honor my memory to the fullest if you are to live them."

"Enough with this sodding mince!" Galon suddenly barked. "You've come a long way in my eyes since we first met, Undevar. There's no one else fitting to be grandmaster. I'll be waiting for the news 'fore the first bit of frost start clinging, y'hear?"

"The confidence is appreciated," Undevar replied. "Let's just hope it isn't misplaced."

"It's not, no matter what happens," Brimir said firmly. "Listen here, Undevar—you know I loathe to say 'I have faith in you.' Faith is transparent compared to might and steel. But if it guides yours, then you have my faith." He suddenly seized Undevar's shoulder in a firm grip. Giving it a shake, Brimir declared, "You give that whoreson what's coming to him."

Undevar nodded. Brimir's hand dropped from him, and he took a step back. As Undevar turned away, he quickly added over his shoulder, "One more thing—if… I can't deliver the message myself, can you tell Theila what happened?"

"You didn't tell her?"

"I couldn't." He kept his face turned away.

The tense moment quickly passed. "Well, go on then," Galon said. "Destiny's a-waiting."

The Mahakam Mountains, and every last trace of home, shrank behind Undevar as he rode towards the west. He was no longer a stranger to being landlocked, and yet the gravitation towards water called to him like an innate pull. It spread to his horse, sending unnatural speed to its thundering hooves.

It took a little under a week to finally reach the western shores of the Continent. He arrived at a small coastal town and used the last of his money, save a few coins, to buy a boat. It remained tethered to the dock as Undevar found a tavern to take his meal in. There, he chatted jovially with anyone who was willing to talk with him. He asked each and every one of his companions for their life's story, taking in their words like a parched plant touched by rainwater.

Even those with stories they considered dull—having lived in the same town all their lives and worked the same job day-by-day—these too were fulfilled lives. Enriched. And when Undevar would tell them this, some looked startled. Others looked at him as though he were mad.

Undevar's final company was a young man. His story was as unsatisfying as they got. And yet, even with this pessimistic words filling Undevar's ears and the way the young man leaned his head heavily on a hand, the witcher saw unending potential in his eyes.

The boy asked Undevar how old he was. It was then, for the first time in a long time, Undevar told him his true age. "I'm going on three and a half centuries."

There was wonder, and a touch of cynicism, in the young man's eyes. "I've heard witchers can live very long. _Can_. Most don't."

"A paradox, innit?" Undevar agreed with a humorless chuckle. "Extending the lives of monster slayers just so they can die somewhere along the road?"

"If you really are that old," the boy began, "then you must have seen a lot, haven't you? Know a lot? Age begets wisdom—or at least that's what Ma always told me as a boy. Mostly so I would pipe down and listen to her, though."

"Sure, I've seen a lot," Undevar said. "Not sure if I know a lot—never was a good learner. Supposed I learned what I needed to know to have made it this far."

"I want to see the world too," the young man suddenly confessed. "Maybe not as much as you have—there's no way I could do that. But even if I experienced just a sliver, that would be enough."

"There's nothing keeping you shackled down here," Undevar pointed out, looking down at his tankard and swilling the last bit of runny foam at the bottom. "So why don't you?"

"Haven't got the means. Don't have enough to buy a horse, and I don't have the faintest clue what I'd need to take with me."

"Ever been camping, laddie? Slept on the ground with only the heavens as your roof?"

"Sure, had to deliver a parcel to Trivant once. It's about a week's travel away on a slow horse, which was what I had last time I made the trip."

"And how's your hand at weapons?"

The young man shrugged. "I just started as a town guard recruit three months ago. Been learning the ins and outs of a sword—how to fend off bandits and armed thieves, mostly."

Undevar nodded. He gave his tankard one last swill before throwing his head back to empty it. After running the back of his hand across his whiskers, he said, "Tell you what—let's make a deal."

The boy paused. "A deal?" he repeated uneasily.

"Aye. You promise me that you'll take at least another year to get yourself seasoned with a sword and a bow. Some other kind of weapon if you fancy it, but get your arms cozy with a sword and bow 'til you could hit a target in your sleep."

The young man looked puzzled. "Well, training is only supposed to be three months," he said.

"You're not training to be a town guard, laddie. You're training to be an explorer. An adventurer. That's the only way you're going to see those sights you're itchin' to see."

"But—."

"You make me this promise, and my horse is yours. It's the finest beast you'll ever come across—a friend of mine who knows his steeds gave it to me. Damned thing's as fast as the wind and loyal as a hound. It'll take care of you so long as you return the favor. And I'm not just offering the horse—everything it's carrying right now is yours. All the gear you'll need for the road. Keep it with you until you're ready to set off."

"Why are you doing this?"

Undevar shrugged. He stared ahead at nothing in particular as he said, "All witchers have this thing called 'the Path.' No matter which school he comes from, he follows it." Undevar pushed his tankard up to his empty plate. "Seems I reached the end of mine, laddie. I've got no more adventure left in me, but the horse and pack do and to throw them away would be a damn waste. So what do you say?"

"I don't know," the young man replied. "I… I need some time to think about this."

"Take all the time you need," Undevar said. "Time—it's a commodity for the youth. You'll find me bled dry of it. I'll be sailing out in the morning, and the horse and his packs are yours. Whether you choose to keep them or sell them, I want you to do it with your heart's blessing."

"Wait!" The young man stood as Undevar did. "Where are you going?"

The corners of Undevar's mouth lifted in a joyless smile. "The end of my Path," he answered.

* * *

He knew. There was no way in hell he didn't. He knew as soon as the first foot came down on the wet sand. Something seemed to creep out from the sand, snaking through his veins, until it forced its way into his brain—the voiceless snarl that old him _you're in MY domain now_.

Undevar didn't see a single trace of Valdre from the keep as he made his way inland, but he knew his grandmaster was already waiting for him. There was only one reason Undevar would come back. Deep down, this was the day both of them had been waiting for their entire lives.

Undevar let his eyes stray from the keep as he passed landmarks that were all too familiar—shapes and forms that whispered echoes of his loveless childhood.

As Undevar looked back up at the keep, he suddenly froze. He cursed himself for doing so, but it was already too late to take the flash of vulnerability back. The man at the top of the slope, standing in the open entrance of the outer gate, had seen it.

They regarded each other silently for one, infinite second. Then, with his arms crossed, a smile perched itself on Valdre's face that sent as much fear as it did anger through Undevar.

"So," he said, "you've come crawling back."

"You know why I'm here."

"Hmph," Valdre grunted. "Cowards don't rise up to be grandmasters, runt. It'd be in your best interest to turn around and do what you do best—run." The sight of his back turning sparked rage inside Undevar.

"Face me!" he shouted. Valdre kept walking. "In the ring!" The grandmaster stopped.

"I hear your fear," Valdre said, his face turning to the side. "I hear how it rattles your heart when you spoke of the ring." He finally turned, looking Undevar square in the eye. Distance didn't matter—it was as though those cold, amber eyes were inches from his. "Fine. You'll get your chance at midday. It was nice knowing you, Undevar. You were always my finest disappointment."

He let the grandmaster disappear out of view with the final word, all the bitter, hateful words he wanted to spew clenched tightly in his trembling fists. He took a step back, another, then another. Turning, he quickly hurried back down the small dirt path. He rushed into the forest where he had once tried to find solace. Now, all he found were sparsely scattered trees. The forest had thinned, now bearing several tree stumps that rose jagged from the earth like headstones.

As he passed through, he looked up at the branches. He was terrified he would see the rope still dangling from one of them. But time had granted Undevar this one mercy and erased it.

He came to the very edge of the forest where land touched water. There, Undevar knelt down and stared out at the glittering ocean. No potions. No preparations. Bear only accepted a grandmaster that tore away the title with his own bare might. There was nothing left to do but remain here and wait. In that moment, he felt alone.

"This is where I laid you to rest." He didn't know where the words were coming from, but let them emerge quietly through his lips. "Where I sent you to the care of Freya. And when all you left behind was ash, I walked high atop the cliffs and let the wind carry you. I hope it brought you to all the places you wanted to see."

The witcher sighed and shut his eyes. "Since then I have asked you nearly a hundred times to forgive me. Don't forgive him—the witcher who let you down. Forgive the man he became, the one who was confronted and punished by his own fallacies." Undevar opened his eyes, greeted by the view of the ocean. "I ask you this one last time. The next time I tell you to forgive me, it will be when we are face-to-face." His eyes flickered up to the sun. It was almost directly overhead.

Undevar prepared to rise, but something in the water caught his eye. Amid the swirling, churning currents, something reflected the light. It was small and had an appendage that flowed behind it like a tail. Beneath the surface, it danced to and fro with the churn of the water before a strong wave pushed it onto the rocks. When the water pulled back, it remained caught in the crags.

All he could do was stare in stunned silence. And when he was finally able to move his arm, Undevar reached forward to free the trapped object from the rocks.

After all these years, the braided string had been frayed down to thin, gray wisps. The charm, no longer perfectly circular, had been eroded into a small, oblong shape. It looked nothing as Undevar remembered it, and yet he knew from the way he held it that it was the same one.

Closing his hand, Undevar looked out towards the water. He felt the hardened body of the shell charm pressing against his palm. Suddenly, the witcher rose. He slipped the charm into a pouch on his belt and turned. Over the canopy, the keep loomed. This time, he wasn't afraid of it.

Even before he reached it, the putrid smell of coppery blood wrapped itself around Undevar as he marched towards the ring. Three centuries of torn flesh atop this earth—he wouldn't be surprised if the smell never left the soil.

He looked up and slowed his steps as he saw silent spectators up around the ring's borders—witchers he had once called masters. They watched him with cruel, mocking eyes, the same ones they'd used to watch boys get pushed in and fend for themselves. Gazing back, it was then Undevar realized what those gazes told him. _Give us a little entertainment_ , they demanded. Whether it was a contender to the grandmaster or a scared child, all was considered sport.

'Another reason to make it out of here alive,' Undevar thought. 'After I give Valdre what's coming to him, you're all next.'

The gate to the ring was open, yawning wide like a maw. As Undevar walked through, he saw his opponent waiting for him at the center. At the sight of Undevar, Valdre spread his arms wide.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" he jeered. "Welcome home."

Scowling, Undevar drew his steel sword with a sharp yank. "Come on then."

"No chatter—straight to the point. I like that." Valdre drew his own sword and lazily began to circle around Undevar. Quickly, Undevar stepped in the opposite direction. "Don't any of you think of barging in—to get to me or him. I don't think you need me to tell you what a stupid fucking idea that'd be." He gave his sword a casual twirl, which sent Undevar's heart leaping. "This one is mine, and don't none of you shitheads get in my way."

Valdre suddenly lunged so quickly Undevar took the last available moment to respond. Their swords caught against each other as two halves of an X. Steel touched for only a second before it was pulled apart only to clash again and again like the quick, snapping teeth of dueling beasts. Blades in both hands switched countless times between weapon and shield—striking and parrying, swinging and deflecting.

Suddenly, Undevar spotted a window and hastened to take it. His greatsword came swiping down to take a diagonal cleave into the grandmaster's neck. But his slash was cut short as the second blade came up to catch it. An awful grating filled Undevar's ears as the swords scraped against each other, and he only caught sight of the elbow that was brought up right before it smashed into his face. Blinded by white, Undevar pulled away from the lock and stumbled as the piercing pain of his broken nose pulsed through his skull.

"Ha!" he heard Valdre scoff, and he quickly pulled himself upright. The blurry image of the grandmaster wavered and split before his eyes. "You fight like a Continental now! Move too tightly, too neatly. They swing a sword like it's a dance—a real tussle ain't pretty. Survival doesn't make an audience clap. It turns their faces ashen and makes their bairns cry. You're a bleeding disappointment, Undevar. I thought I was going to get a real challenge." He saw the grandmaster's hand fly up. Even with his vision marred, he knew what the Sign was from the bright burst that erupted. Quickly, Undevar lifted his free hand and shielded himself from the torrent of flames with a wall of Quen.

He saw the fire lick and curl against the translucent face of the shield. The hand that maintained Quen shook under the effort. He felt the heat grow and felt the blast of Igni push so fiercely he had to step back. Pain grew and crept up his trembling arm. When he could bear it no longer he dropped the shield and rolled out of the way as the flames shot undeterred at him.

Valdre was already ready for him when he came back up. Undevar felt his body slow like he was dredged in mud. The ground around him glowed in a ring of purple. Eyes wide, he spotted the sadistic grin on Valdre's face and realized just how defenseless he was. Sun glinted off the steel blade as it came whistling. It slashed through Undevar's chainmail like paper, scoring an inch-deep gash that ran diagonally across his torso.

The force of the strike shoved him outside of the Yrden trap's bounds. Undevar stumbled and hit the ground, clutching his chest. Every breath he drew pulled fire into the wound. Slow, heavy steps advanced on him.

"This is _it?"_ Jeer was replaced with anger in Valdre's voice. "I bring you up to be my greatest threat and this is how you turn out?" His boots stopped right by Undevar's head. "Pitiful," Valdre spat. "You don't even deserve to die by my hand." To someone outside the ring, he ordered, "Ready the beast. This one dies as he should have."

Pulling ragged breaths through gritted teeth, Undevar clenched a fist. He remembered the feeling of the charm within it. He remembered the last kiss shared at Vintrica's entrance, the way she watched him go with a smile. She wouldn't know. Not unless Brimir kept his promise.

He hadn't even done her the justice of telling her himself.

With a sharp tug, Undevar wrenched his dagger out and stabbed it deep down into the foot of Valdre's boot. He felt it cut through the thick sole and stick into the earth. He saw the foot jerk, pinned in place by the blade, and heard the grandmaster give an aggravated roar. Rolling onto his front, Undevar pulled himself to his feet. His hand clutched his chest where the pain burned fiercest.

Suddenly, he felt Valdre seize him by the hair and tug him back with a sharp jerk. Panicked, Undevar thrust an elbow back and felt it collide with something solid. The hold on his hair was released. Undevar stumbled free. As he turned back to Valdre, he saw the grandmaster yank his foot up. The knife, caught by the hilt, was tugged free from the ground. Valdre wrenched it out. His eyes burned so violently with rage and hatred, Undevar felt as though they were searing his skin.

"I'll make you _suffer_ before you die!"

Undevar saw Valdre's arm pull back, then throw. His blade was already up. The clang of the dagger deflecting off of his sword rang in his ears. He let the momentum of the parry swing around and pull him forward at the grandmaster.

They clashed again, tearing at each other with blades and fists and Signs. But this time, it was different. So Valdre thought he fought like a Continental? No, forget it all. Forget the proper stances, the refined and poised movements. Consider the blade an extension of the arm? Take that mince and shove it back down your throat—the blade was nothing more than a means to a dirty, bloody, foul end that rotted and festered in the sun. Survival was gritty and uncomfortable, but so, _so_ addicting.

But Undevar wanted more than survival. To call it revenge wasn't enough—it was something beyond that. Something that screamed and writhed with an emotion that couldn't be put in words—the kind of feeling that could only be described as fingers digging deep and ripping apart to get to the insides. And it was that visceral passion that strangled the pain of Undevar's sword wound and moved his body with every intention to kill.

Valdre felt it. With each pummel, each back and forth, the wall behind the grandmaster drew nearer and nearer. He became quickly aware. With a sudden burst of Aard, the two men skidded apart. But whatever had possessed Undevar wasn't ready to back down yet. That was until the grandmaster spoke.

"You want to know why she did it, Undevar?" Valdre asked through a broken face, glistening under a thick sheen of blood. It poured from his busted eye and torn lip. "I remember the way you carried her. You still wonder about it, don't you?"

This _thing_ in front of him was just making noises, and Undevar was in no mood to listen to it. He took one heavy, thumping step after another, spurred on by the sight and smell of blood. His own dripped from the points of his torn chainmail. His head was dizzy and his vision swayed. Undevar couldn't quite will himself to be completely present. Perhaps it was the loss of blood, or perhaps it was something that had suddenly taken over him—something that craved a dark, violent finale.

"Ever notice a change in her? Notice a time when she grew none too keen to open her legs up for you?" Slowly, Undevar surfaced as he listened. Through the fogginess, he began to hang on Valdre's words, though every single one drove in an additional spike of dread into him. "That sorceress wasn't the first wench of yours I claimed for myself."

Undevar felt as though he had been dunked into cold water, like he had fallen off from Sansira's Spire all over again.

"I'll tell you what, Undevar—even with you ploughing her all winter long, that whore was still as tight as an unkissed maiden."

His whole body began to shake. The invisible cold reached into his lungs and seized away his breath, leaving him to silently drown. _Take me away. Please, just take me far away_.

The grip he had on his anger had dropped completely, and that fact was made loud and clear on Undevar's face for Valdre to see. In a blink he lunged. Undevar didn't move. Wouldn't.

Valdre struck him like a charging ox, knocking both of them to the ground. The world before Undevar's eyes disappeared in a blinding flash of white as the back of his skull cracked against the ground. The greatsword flew from his hand. To where, he didn't know, but it mattered little. Valdre had him pinned, his bloody face towering over his own.

"I have waited _so_ long for this day," he snarled. A fist came hurtling and forced Undevar's head to the side as the jagged metal on Valdre's knuckles shredded his cheek to ribbons. He anticipated the second fist and caught it before it could mangle the other side of his face. But Valdre tore his hands away, holding onto one. With a sudden wrench, he bent two of Undevar's fingers back until they touched the back of his hand. Undevar couldn't help but cry out, and he knew Valdre reveled in it.

Everything was growing dark. Valdre threw the ruined hand aside and pulled out his dagger. "How about it?" he hissed, hovering the blade's point above Undevar's face. "An eye for an eye."

His heart thumped rapidly as he saw the point descend slowly, cruelly. "No!" he pleaded, trying to catch it with his remaining hand. Valdre grabbed it by the wrist and pinned it down. "I'll do it slow," he mocked. "Make sure you feel every cut and twist."

Undevar squeezed his eyes shut. He knew it was no use, but couldn't do anything else.

Suddenly, Valdre gave a hollow, rattling gasp. Undevar opened his eyes. As he did, he felt the blade of the dagger scrape harmlessly against his skin before clattering next to his head. Valdre's one remaining eye was wide, the whites bulging and bloodshot. He was gripping his chest, the hand clutched claw-like over his breastplate.

Undevar saw that the sky behind Valdre was completely gone—replaced by black clouds. They were moving, churning like angry waves. Then, he realized that the masters who had been watching from the outskirts of the ring were also gone, obscured completely by the dark mass that seemed to engulf just the ring in a dome.

Valdre toppled over, but managed to catch himself with an arm. The other was still glued to his chest plate as he struggled to draw ragged, strained breaths. Undevar watched him in horrified amazement, wondering what the hell was happening. But then he saw the grandmaster's eye focus on something a short distance away with a gaze that would have melted steel.

With a pained grunt, Undevar rolled over onto his stomach. He looked in the same direction Valdre did. When he did, shock leaked across his face at the sight of who stood there.

Arm raised, aimed towards him. Fingers curled claw-like as though crushing something. Gripping it tight enough to keep it from beating. Beside him, Valdre gripped the left side of his chest, gasping for breath even though every single one seemed to fill his lungs with acid. Undevar remembered what it had been like.

And though he choked, Valdre began to speak. To him, Undevar realized. "So," the grandmaster sputtered, "this is… what you had… to resort to? You… are no Bear… you'll never be gr… never be…" His words cut off as he shuddered and gripped his chest tighter.

"Stop!" It was Undevar who begged as he staggered to his feet. "Theila, no! Stop!"

Deaf to his pleas, Theila took one step after another, drawing close to Valdre. She was glaring into his single eye as she continued to hold her hand out between them. The grandmaster was suddenly pulled up onto his feet, though his feet dangled as if he were suspended by invisible strings. Then, Theila opened her mouth. When she spoke, her voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. Undevar heard it with his entire being rather than just his ears.

 _"The great heroes of old who now reside in the great heavenly halls—each and every single one of them—will forever know that the one who burns below them, the one who once called himself Valdre, was defeated by a_ woman."

Her hand closed, and she suddenly punched it forward. Valdre flew back as though he had been struck by a thundering carriage and landed so hard that the dry ground dented and cracked underneath him.

Something was still hovering in the air where Valdre had once been. Drops of crimson glided down and dripped from it. Undevar stared, aghast, at the heart of his former grandmaster. It was contorted. Indentions were squeezed into the soft, glistening flesh in rows like fingers.

Then, the heart dropped onto the ground where it lay still like Valdre. Undevar looked from it to the body, cold realization suddenly creeping over him. And following closely at its heels was a quiet, desperate rage.

He heard her speak. "Undevar—."

"You," he uttered softly. His eyes flew to her. "YOU!" His voice had risen to a scream. "TOOK MY DESTINY FROM ME!"

Theila stared back, her eyes wide. "What?"

"I was supposed to meet my destiny in this ring! I challenge Valdre and one of us would've died by the other's hands! That's the only way Bear gets its grandmaster and you—you took that from me!"

"Undevar…" Her voice quivered under the pain his words had inflicted on her. Hearing it hurt Undevar, but he was too angry to care. "Valdre would have won. He would have remained as grandmaster, and you—."

"Then that's how it should have been!" Undevar interrupted furiously. "Either I would've won the title or died trying! But now I've done neither! I've done nothing! All because of you!"

"No, Undevar, please listen to me." Theila's words came out rushed. "Tradition be damned—the title is yours. No one saw. No one knows. The world outside will only see that you killed Valdre. You are grandmaster now."

"Then get out!" Undevar hollered, throwing a finger out towards where he knew the horizon would be. The wound to his pride stung fiercer than any scored on his body, and that pain fueled his anger. "Get off my island!"

"What?" This time her voice held a note of despair.

"This guild is mine now, and you are never welcomed back here. _Ever!"_

Even in the dimness, he saw the way her eyes glistened. "If that's what you want—what you need, you'll never hear or see from me again. But please, _please_ promise me one thing—that you won't turn into the grandmaster that came before you. That you'll always be you, no matter what."

Her quiet plea made him pause for a split second, and then he growled, "Get out."

The swirling black clouds closed in. As they did, the wind picked up, whipping Undevar's cloak and hair about. It whistled in his ears, but even then he heard her quiet whisper as Theila disappeared with her last parting words.

"I'll love you always."

Darkness closed in around them, the wisps and tendrils just scraping against Undevar in raucous gusts of wind. The chaotic vortex suddenly engulfed him. And then, in one final squall, it was all gone and the light returned. Undevar squinted against the harsh sun, lowering his eyes to the ground. His eyes fell on the heart.

He heard several angry outbursts around him. Looking up, Undevar saw the masters leaning over the boundary to get a better look at who had fallen and who still remained on his feet. It was clear to tell, but denial kept them from accepting what their eyes told them. The impossible had happened—the chain had been ascended.

"What happened?" they demanded. "What caused that gale?"

"Valdre's not really dead, is he?"

Ignoring their cries, Undevar stooped down and picked up the heart from the red-speckled ground. As he stared at it, he joylessly humored himself with the thought that this thing ought to not have existed. Then, finally, he turned to let the masters see what he held in his hand. He could tell they recognized it when a deafening silence fell over them.

Undevar looked up, glaring at each one in turn. "This school is mine," he uttered softly. No one responded. The declaration hung in the air until one of the masters scowled.

"Like hell it is," he hissed.

"He killed Valdre!" another snapped. "That makes him grandmaster, and the only way you're changing that is if you challenge him yourself!"

All eyes turned back to Undevar. He suddenly felt as though he were standing before a pack of wolves. His heart hammered. He was beaten, bleeding, and in no state to face any contenders.

There was only one way to ward away the danger.

"Aye, come down! All of you!" Undevar shouted. "If any of you still call yourselves a dead man's dog, you'll soon join him!" He held the heart out in front of him, squeezing it as hard as he could. His fingers dug into the squelching flesh, and blood poured from it in streams. "Come down and I'll rip you!" He threw the ruined chunk of flesh aside.

The pack was quiet. Then, one of them glanced at the others. "I'm going back inside," he mumbled before leaving the ring. One by one, the others peeled away. Finally, there was only one left. This one glared at Undevar for a second longer before turning away.

When he was alone, Undevar let his shoulders drop. He staggered to the edge of the ring and leaned heavily against the wall. Holding a hand over his torn chainmail, Undevar slid down onto the ground and panted. His mutated body was already racing to mend the broken flesh, but he knew he wouldn't last if he waited here for the adrenaline to wear off. Undevar rose to his feet and made his way slowly to the keep.

Just as he had been trained to do all his life, Undevar locked away every trace of vulnerability as soon as he found himself within the proximity of the other masters. He squared his shoulders, ignoring the pain. As he walked through the doorway, Undevar spat out the blood that had tricked from his broken nose into his mouth. He found a housekeeper, and although the very sight of her tortured him, he marched straight up to her and demanded a vial of Swallow. When she came back to him with it, Undevar snatched it out of her hands and snarled for her to go up into the grandmaster's wing and wait in the bedroom. She obeyed with her head bowed. As the housekeeper disappeared around the corner, Undevar heard a master say quietly to another, "A right chip off the old block, this one. Valdre brought him up right."

After taking the Swallow, Undevar went to the grandmaster's wing. He found the housekeeper sitting on the edge of the bed. As Undevar entered, she rose. He ignored her and walked to the corner of the room, where gingerly he removed his armor. Once all the plating had been discarded, Undevar peeled off his gambeson and gingerly inspected his wounds. The bleeding had stopped, and though sealed, the gashes were still tender. Sighing heavily, Undevar turned. He saw the young woman watching him wearily. He walked towards her. Upon reaching her, his hands remained at his sides and he simply told her, "Move."

She quickly stepped out of his way. Undevar sat on the bed, leaned forward, and held his head heavily in his hands as he waited for the pain to retreat. Time slipped by silently.

Then, the girl's voice came out softly. "I could fetch a rag and water." Without looking up, Undevar nodded. He listened to the housekeeper's gentle footsteps fade and then, after a moment, return. Undevar finally lifted his head and sat up. He listened to water slosh as the girl wetted the rag. As she touched it to his skin, the muscles under the cold cloth twitched at the icy touch. Slowly, with gentle caresses, the housekeeper cleaned the dried blood from Undevar's body. All the while, Undevar didn't dare look at her.

When she was done, the water in the bowl was opaque. The housekeeper left to throw the dirty water out. It surprised Undevar when she came back in. He finally willed himself to lift his gaze to her.

She stood there nervously for a moment, hands clasped together. Then, she said, "I won't say a word. Not to anyone."

Undevar nodded and looked down. He heard pops as the girl tore off a few buttons from her front. The smell of her hair filled his nose as she ruffled it. Only when she looked truly disheveled did she leave.

Undevar looked back at the bed. His eyes swept around the room, realizing that everything here held traces of Valdre. He rose. With harsh yanks, Undevar pulled the sheets from the bed until all that remained was the bare mattress. He bundled the sheets in his arms, and then threw them into the fireplace. The first trigger of Igni saw tendrils of smoke rising from blackened spots that spread across the cloth. Frowning, Undevar impatiently casted Igni again. This time, flames leapt up in the fireplace.

Undevar turned away. His eyes began watering and he coughed as smoke quickly filled the room. Well, this was an idea he hadn't thought through. Turning back to the fireplace, Undevar dragged the smoldering sheets out and stamped on them until the fire had completely died. He opened a window, and then returned to the bed. The mattress creaked as he lay down. Beside him, he rested his steel sword—just in case. Then, with exhaustion weighting heavily down on him, he fell into a deep sleep.

When next he opened his eyes, he found nothing in the room disturbed. Undevar glanced out the open window. Night had fallen.

Pain was revived anew as he sat up. It wasn't just the partially healed wounds now—every bone in his body ached. Undevar flexed his shoulders and stood. He went over to the window, stopping briefly to watch the moonlight glimmer on the ocean top, and then closed it. With a heavy sigh, he returned to bed and fell back asleep.

When morning came, Undevar found himself stirred awake by the sound of someone moving about in the grandmaster's wing. The weight of the footsteps told him it was no housekeeper. The response was quick to pulse through Undevar, and he sprang up to his feet with the sword in hand. He waited, but the steps didn't draw close. Finally, he decided to confront the noise and flew out the door.

He saw one of the masters walking down the hall with a bottle in his hand—taken from Valdre's storage. The sight of it made Undevar scowl. Just because Valdre was gone, didn't mean anyone could just help themselves to the grandmaster's personal larder.

"Haw!" Undevar snapped. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The master only turned his head to the side. It was enough for Undevar to recognize him as the one who had been the last to remain at the ring yesterday. Instead of answering Undevar's demand, he simply released the bottle and let it shatter on the floor.

Undevar began marching towards him. "What do you think Valdre would have done if you did that in front of him?" he growled.

"You're not Valdre," the master replied nonchalantly. "And you're certainly not the grandmaster—not in our eyes."

"Watch your tongue!"

The master scoffed dryly. "Aye, _Grandmaster."_ He veered out of view around the corner.

Still clutching the sword, Undevar breathed heavily through his nose. He realized he was still topless. No wonder the master had been so unthreatened—here charged what he had seen as a half-naked runt, wounds out on display, with his sword. "Fuck," Undevar hissed under his breath as he turned back to his room.

* * *

 _Many have come, many have fallen_

 _The skies are shaking_

 _Gods are calling you out with all their anger_

 _They whisper to me, "Don't be a stranger."_

 _They say, "Take my hand, don't be astray."_

 _I know my time has come to make a change_

"Free Man"—J2

* * *

 _ **Addendum: This story has reached its terrible two's. God damn. It's time to start the potty training.**_

 _ **I don't think I stress this enough, but thank you all for your continued support. It's honestly my biggest motivation.**_


	68. Chapter 68 - The Matriarch's Price

How ironic that the new grandmaster of Bear felt wholly trapped in his own guild. Perhaps Valdre had felt right at home—king of his own domain surrounded by his loyal hounds. But here was a newcomer that had declared himself the grandmaster. He didn't seem to fit the throne, and the hounds certainly didn't welcome the new scent.

Undevar thought of his two lifelines—Brimir and Galon. But they felt worlds away, and Undevar wasn't sure he could risk leaving the guild at a time like this. But it seemed he needn't have worried.

He was first alerted by the clamor that rang from the first floor of the keep. It had come without warning and sent the anxiety-riddled grandmaster barreling down to see what was going on. He found several of the masters up in arms. Whoever they were facing was obscured from Undevar. There were hissed insults thrown, the spitting of "Cowards!", and shouted vows to kill.

Undeterred, Undevar marched straight up to the nearest master, seized him by the shoulder plate, and yanked him back so he could see what was going on. What he saw shocked him.

The two witchers in front of him seemed startled as well. "Fuckin' _hell_ , Undevar!" Galon bellowed. "What happened to your face?"

Undevar's cheek had been given a little under a month to heal from Valdre's love tap, but he knew the jagged metal had left the tissue without a chance to mend properly. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that the craggy flesh gave him the appearance of looking older than he already was. Freya knew Undevar needed all the help he could get in trying to establish his authority. He had faced test after test from the masters trying to whittle away his will to lead. And though each test had seen Undevar emerge as grandmaster still, he couldn't help but feel as though 'pass' wasn't the right word. He was more a sailboat that managed to stay afloat in a storm.

And here came another test when Valdre's dogs bared their teeth. "Damn Continentals, these!" they bayed. "Lost their Skelligan blood the moment they chose to hole up with those twig-limbed mainlanders!"

"They are Skelligers, and they are _Bears!"_ Undevar trumpeted over their bellowing. Like beasts trained to respond to the whistle, they quieted down—but only a little. "And I vow, Freya be my witness, that anyone who has the gall to bring harm to them or cast them away is a dead man!" He thrust a finger down the hall. "Away! All of you!"

In Undevar's youth, these witchers had been his nightmares—masters only in title and nothing else. Hidden under the titles were their true names: abusers. Psychopaths. Bullies. Valdre had been the whip lash across the back that tore open skin and drew blood, but these witchers had been the continual sting of agony that festered in the wound.

But now, to Undevar's bitter amusement, he found he was grateful for what these men were—dogs. Worshippers of strength. Feeders attached to the underbelly. Cowards.

At Undevar's shouted command, they tempered their hatred. Slowly, reluctantly, they did what their training had wired them to do and obeyed the grandmaster. But before Undevar could will himself to breath again, he found a pair of seething eyes watching him. Three long scars ran vertically down his face as though a beast had once seized him by the head. One scored directly over his right eye, leaving nothing but pale white.

This one—Undevar recognized him. This scarred dog was the silent dissenter, the one who had been last to leave the ring and had invaded the grandmaster's larder. With grotesque, mismatched eyes, he conveyed his disdain to Undevar through a prolonged stare before turning away.

Even with their backs turned, Undevar wouldn't allow himself to relax. He'd be a fool to think they weren't still watching even with their gazes averted.

Galon wasn't quite as cautious. Even with the masters still well within earshot, he stabbed his broadsword down into the stone floor with a rattling clang and boasted, "Not surprised—not one bit! And hell, swore I saw some Valdre left in you when you told those bastarts off. If you hadn't been aiming to save our skins, I'd be dead worried we got repeating history on our hands!"

Hearing Galon's words, and basking in the familiarity of these two witchers, Undevar felt as though he had returned to a refuge he had gone years and years without. Letting his shoulders drop, Undevar squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly. "Mighty foolish of you two to come here without warning. What if I hadn't been the one to emerge from the grandmaster's wing just now?"

"You may be king of the keep, but don't think that'll stop me from pummeling your face into the ground!" Galon threatened. "Think Brimir and I are that daft? Of course we waited for the news first!"

"News? What news?"

"Fuck, Valdre must've really done a number to your head before he croaked," Brimir mused. "That sorceress found us—Galon was hunting out around the outskirts of Vengerberg and I was in Gulet—and delivered your message. I swear, I could hear Galon's hoot from where I was. As soon as we got the word, we headed straight for the shore." Undevar wished Brimir would've left it there, but he continued, "Figured she'd want to come with, given, well, you know… you. But she couldn't—said she had a promise to keep."

Undevar shrugged. "That's that, then." He glanced away from Brimir's inquiring gaze.

"Well," Galon said, cutting through the brief spell of unease, "maybe it's for the best. Can't have a lass like that distracting the grandmaster while he sets about cleaning up this right shitehole of a keep."

At those words, the gravity of the situation slowly crept back over Undevar. "Clean up?" he repeated softly. "This place doesn't need a clean up—there are things here that need to be dead straight burned." In a more tired voice, he added, "What am I going to do?"

"Whatever it is," Brimir told him, "you won't have to do it alone. We didn't come here just to watch you. We're ready to get our hands dirty if you need us to." Undevar didn't miss how Brimir glanced down the hall where the masters had gone down. "Surely you aren't going to…"

"Keep them?" Undevar finished, keeping his voice low. "I plan on ridding this place completely of Valdre's stench, and they're part of it."

"I'm sure that isn't lost on them," Brimir warned.

"They think he's Valdre!" Galon pointed out. "A smaller one, mayhaps, but an incarnate of the late grandmaster nonetheless. They've got the idea cozy in their heads that Valdre prized them, and they're going to assume his successor feels the same way."

"Still, it doesn't hurt to be cautious." Brimir looked worried. "Just the three of us against all of them. You know me—I spit at the thought of backing down from a fight, but I'm none too keen on charging headfirst into suicide."

"We're not killing them," Undevar said pointedly. The two Bears look startled at his words. "That's the sort of thing Valdre would do, and I'll be damned if I start making his kind of footprints. I'll give them a chance—cast them out and hope they find retribution or justice on the Path."

"I don't like that," Galon stated plainly. "You don't want to be like Valdre, aye, but sometimes leaning his way is going to be necessary."

"Whatever chance there is to inject less evil into this world, I'll take it," Undevar said. His eyes drifted towards a nearby window. Behind it, the ocean beckoned. "I'll need to find a mage. There was one I met long ago. I don't know if he still walks this earth—Roffe, that was his name. I'll need his help if I'm to do what I have in mind." He glanced back at Brimir and Galon. "But that means I leave you two here. I can't—."

"Can't? Haw, Undevar, we're no bairns," Galon cut off. "Sail off and be more concerned about these wee masters instead."

"Careful, Galon," Undevar said in a reprimanding tone. He heaved a deep sigh. "Right then. No rest for the wicked. I'll be off at first daybreak tomorrow. As for the two of you—I'll trust you can find a place to stay inside this keep." He flashed an attempt at a jeering smile. "Grandmaster's wing is off limits, I'm afraid."

"Damn, and I was looking forward to that heated pool."

By daybreak, Undevar was cutting through the water on a small, fast boat. His heart was still racing with dread at the thought of leaving Brimir and Galon alone back at the keep. He'd made it abundantly clear to the masters before leaving that they would pay in blood if Undevar returned to any evidence of disobedience.

Still, he worried. And he wondered if these deep-seated emotions were befitting of a grandmaster. _I will not be like Valdre_ , he reminded himself. _I will see the masters under me as brothers._ That was the promise he'd made to her, wasn't it?

Undevar scowled at the uninvited thought and gazed out towards the water. He pushed it from his mind and began planning out his next course of action once he'd hit land.

Finding Roffe—one individual out of the entire population of the Continent—was, unsurprisingly, no easy task. Even with the aid of scry, Undevar's progress was slow. It took nearly three weeks until he finally caught up to the mage. Damn this old man and his nomadic lifestyle.

Roffe was, of course, shocked to see Undevar on his doorstep. It had been close to a century since the two had last met. But instead of with a contract, Undevar came with a proposal that the mage found no trouble in accepting. But before returning to the keep, they made a quick trip to Ofir to find a certain horsemaster.

Undevar was petrified that he would return to the Bear keep to find two bodies. To his surprise, he found no trace of bloodshed aside from very plain evidence of fisticuffs and a tension in the air thick enough to cut through. Galon assured Undevar that nothing much had happened during his absence. "Just a bit o'the usual Bear business," he said.

The masters noticed the newcomers to the keep. They were quick to realize that their positions were being threatened. Hostility ramped up, and Undevar decided it was finally time to make the last push to cleanse the keep. He told the masters that they were to leave the island before the day's end, or they would die.

"You're bootin' us off?" one said.

"Aye," Undevar replied firmly. "I've no place for Valdre's dogs in _my_ keep."

Another scoffed. "And you've got place for them?" He jerked his head towards the mage and witchers that Undevar had brought. They were far away, though Undevar knew they were listening closely. "Make _them_ masters?" A low chuckle emitted from the master's throat, as amused as it was furious. "You're going to run this place to the ground. It's a shame what this school is becoming. Well fine—I'm not sticking around to watch it rot into the shithole you're turning it into." He peeled away and, after a second's deliberation, a few others joined him.

There was still a few that stayed. Some were too stubborn to give up their titles. Some, Undevar knew, were silently biding their time to cut this new grandmaster's term short. That worried him. Though these witchers didn't come close to Valdre's ruthlessness, Undevar never forgot how he had struggled to take his former grandmaster down. And had destiny run its course, he wouldn't have.

He knew what he would eventually have to do. There was no turning away. The grandmaster's weapons stayed on his back, even in his own home.

Try as he might have, Undevar was never going to avoid evil. But on that day, it came to him as a blessing in disguise.

He waited, but they would not leave. The subsequent days turned into a countdown. And with each drop of sand, Undevar grew more and more tense. Any user of a crossbow knew that an over-tightened spring spelled disaster.

It was the one with the pale eye that approached him first. Undevar had stepped out into the courtyard where the masters had gathered. Conference was never a Bear's strong suit, let alone with these ones, and Undevar recognized a blaring red flag when he saw one. In a low snarl, the master with the mottled eye told Undevar, "I'm still thinking you don't belong here."

"I never cared for what you thought, and I shan't start now," Undevar replied equally as rough.

"Well you best start caring now," the master threatened. "Because Bear only accepts a grandmaster who took the title himself." The deep creases in Undevar's brow loosened. "You think us daft, do you? There was a gale that covered the ring—shrouded everything—just as Valdre was killed. Convenient, innit?" He took a step towards Undevar. The grandmaster stood his ground, but they all heard his heart quicken. "And now you're trying to get rid of us. You want to hide? Good fucking luck. So tell me—which sorcerer helped you?"

He nodded up at Roffe's tower. "Was it the one you brought along? Promised him a place in the guild, did you? No…" His one remaining eye lit up, and leather creaked as Undevar tightened his fists. "He doesn't seem the type. Not close enough. Who was that witch Valdre had around again?" The master seemed satisfied, gleaning from Undevar's face that he had hit the target. "She came here for you—don't think we weren't aware of that. The wench never did like the grandmaster. Had a spine softer than her paps." The master suddenly gave a harsh, barking laugh. "Ah, I see." His voice became mocking, and almost gleeful. "So where is she now? It doesn't do for the true grandmaster to be apart from the—."

The spring, tensed too tightly, cracked. The pale eye was destroyed as the bolt dug deep through it and into the brain behind it as it was in the midst of its final thought. One master was dead. One less contender to the grandmaster who wasn't planning to wait any longer.

 _"I_ killed Valdre!" Undevar roared, the crossbow clenched tightly in his grip. "And I should've known better than to surround myself with his dogs! I gave you one chance and only one to get off my island. Any that don't make straight for the docks will stay forever as a corpse, and all who want to contend—I'm right here!" Undevar wasn't going to wait any longer, and now things had been set into motion. Like a sword swing, none of it was retractable anymore.

Cowardice—he saw it poison them so that only two remained to challenge them. But this wasn't like fighting Valdre. Undevar was not only fighting for his life. He was fighting to hide a secret, and that was what drove him to slay those two masters in that very courtyard. Once they were dead, his secret would be safe. It would be _safe_.

They were on the ground, not yet having bled to death, and Undevar was already stumbling back into the keep. His breathing was haggard. Instead of the fight, what sapped his strength was his struggle to rein his humanity back in. Undevar stopped in the doorway and leaned an arm heavily against the cold stone. He saw Galon standing there. Freya help him, it must've taken every last bit of self-restraint to keep him from jumping into the brawl.

Undevar dared to glance back at the bodies in the courtyard. "Pyres," he panted. "Pyres—ready them." He dipped his head down. What strands of hair that weren't glued to his sweaty skin dangled around his face. "I was… I was just like him. I said I wouldn't be."

"Nay, Undevar," Galon said. "It was necessary."

"Stop saying that!" Undevar snapped. He raised himself from the stone and hurried past Galon.

* * *

The masters had been right. There was no use in hiding, not when everyone knew where he was. Roffe brought this up to Undevar the next evening when the grandmaster finally emerged from his wing. The mage suggested some sort of magic-based defense—a ring of hostile enchantments. Undevar shot the idea down, saying that spells could not differentiate between friend and foe.

"We could train the witchers to evade the spells when they sail to and fro," Roffe countered.

"And what of the new, inexperienced witcher who, after his very first season, fails to remember? I will not punish my students, Roffe. As grandmaster, I will protect them."

The mage took a moment to deliberate, and then said, "What of an illusion then?"

This idea, Undevar liked. There was nothing better to counter Valdre's witchers than trickery and wiles. And the counter to such an illusion would be an object they wouldn't bother with. A witcher's medallion was his most faithful companion. A symbol to his remaining identity. A powerful tool. To this end, it was with him always. But another witcher's medallion—that was just another object.

Then Roffe pointed out the problem. A spell of this caliber—one to disguise the island for as long as it stood—was far beyond his abilities. He'd need a team of several other mages to help him, or at the very least a single powerful one.

"Closest option is the druids," he said. "Though I do not think they can be of much help—their magic is that of life, of preservation. And not only that…" Roffe began to look uneasy. "Anyone who contributes to this spell will know how to undo it and, by extension, know the location of this keep. I'm afraid I know not who I could trust with this."

"I do," Undevar suddenly spoke up. His voice was heavy, almost like a sigh. "You said a single, powerful caster would work?" He gazed out towards the water. Even with no map or compass, he knew exactly which direction to turn. "She's up in Vintrica."

Undevar stayed confined in his wing as Roffe spoke to the headmistress through the megascope. By the grandmaster's orders, the mage remained vague and only declared that the sorceress was needed for official school business.

He remained in the wing when she arrived at the island. Roffe and the other newly appointed masters served as messengers for the very few orders that came from the absent grandmaster. Undevar handed Roffe the responsibility of managing the illusion project and remained hidden.

It was guilt and shame hidden under the false label of pride that padlocked the grandmaster to his confines. It was what kept him from the windows, lest she catch a glimpse of him and him of her. He couldn't let that happen—it would just make him miss her more than he already did.

Instead, as the mages worked, Undevar busied himself with rearranging the study. Pointless trophies were stacked in the hallway to be burned in a pit later. Scrapes, groans, and squeals of moving furniture sounded from within the study as Undevar moved the desks and bookcases and chairs far from where they originally were. All he wanted was to get rid of that feel of Valdre's study.

The illusion took several days to complete, and so Undevar had plenty of time to destroy, move, and rearrange every inch of the grandmaster's wing. As he was tearing down a tapestry, Undevar heard heavy footsteps approach him.

Brimir didn't say a word as he walked up to Undevar. He remained silent as the tapestry caught fire from where Undevar gripped it and spread along the threadwork. Only when it was dropped to burn freely did Brimir finally speak.

"You won't even look at her and she doesn't question it," he said. "You just hide here. Not just from her."

"Brimir," Undevar warned in a growl.

"I heard what he said before you stuck a bolt in him," Brimir continued on without so much as a waver. "About what happened to Valdre."

Undevar turned to face Brimir. The flames from the tapestry reflected in his eyes. "And?"

"We have a chance to finally rebuild this school," the witcher said. "How we got that chance doesn't matter. What we do with it does." Brimir turned to leave, but not before saying, "I remember how happy you were when you sat with her in the dwarven halls. It's a rare kind of joy, Grandmaster. I only hope you don't devoid yourself of it."

When the spell was completed, Roffe approached Undevar to teach him the mechanics of it. He showed Undevar the beacon in his laboratory, how he could enchant medallions to counter the illusion, and how he could connect them all like a web to the beacon. Undevar listened with a distracted mind. He could smell the scent of freesia on the mage, so strong she could have been standing right there.

Then, at the conclusion of their discussion, Undevar saw Roffe reach into his robes. His hand reemerged with a letter, which he gave to the grandmaster. It smelled just like her. "She asked me to deliver this," was all the mage said.

Undevar left the wax intact and retreated back into his wing. He sat at the foot of his bed and held the sealed letter in both hands. Breathing in the perfume, he struggled not to think of how her kiss felt.

Abruptly, the grandmaster rose and stepped over to the fireplace. He threw the letter into the flames and looked away before he could watch it burn.

That following year, the masters embarked on their most important seasons. They faced not only the dangers of the Path, but also that of those they had once called their own masters. But they had a mission they would not stray from. It was time to find those that would begin a new generation of witchers.

Back at the keep, Undevar and Roffe had one last important thing to do before the boys were brought back. Looking up at the loathsome walls, Undevar's grin was almost sadistic as he said to the mage, "What do you suppose we should put in its stead?"

"Something that would make the late grandmaster writhe, without a doubt."

"Hmm," Undevar mused. "How do you feel about flowerbeds, Roffe? A few vegetables, and a big ol'patch of barley for malting?"

"Sounds like a plan, Grandmaster." And with that, they set about tearing down the ring.

The rest of the year until winter was busy. Undevar devoted much of his time to that garden. He was excited for what it would eventually yield, true, but more importantly it served as his own middle finger to Valdre. Roffe busied himself with studying the concoctions of Bear and becoming familiar with the trials that would turn boys into witchers. Throughout the year, the masters brought back dwarves to help with the forges and mages to aid Roffe with the Trials. They brought back women to housekeep.

Everyone, they promised the grandmaster, had come voluntarily. They were outcasts looking for a home or those wishing to start new lives.

And then, as winter's chill crept in, the first children arrived at the keep. Undevar saw them from the window as masters helped them from the boats and led them inside. Their innocence frightened Undevar.

Eight boys had been brought to the island. They were orphans that no one would miss, children claimed by the Law of Surprise previously invoked, or those with no where else to go. Undevar spoke to none of them and avoided them feverishly. The masters noticed his nervousness, but said nothing.

Then, one evening, Undevar was heading down a hall when he heard a tiny voice speak out to him.

"Sir, when's supper?"

Undevar turned and saw the tiny scrap standing a few feet behind him. Gods, he was too small. Too thin. The Trials would kill him—he was certain of that. Valdre wouldn't even have let this one reach the Trials.

Then what was he doing?

Undevar quickly turned away and hurried down the hall without answering. He noticed that Brimir had been watching, but ignored him. Undevar heard the witcher trail after him but didn't slow down in the slightest until he'd reached the grandmaster's wing.

Knowing Brimir was not far behind, Undevar gasped out, "I can't…" He held an arm out and leaned on the wall. "I can't do this."

Brimir came around and stopped in front of Undevar. "I met an Aen Seidhe advisor once. Centuries old. She'd seen leaders come and go—those who had inherited their titles, fought for it, stole it, or were chosen for it. The greatest leaders, she told me, were the ones who did not want to lead. The ones who were afraid of their own power." Brimir offered a small smile. "She could tell what kind of king a prince would be just by watching him for a few minutes. I think she'd know what kind of leader you'll be if she saw you now."

"Cowering?" Undevar said bitterly.

 _"Aware,"_ Brimir corrected. At that, Undevar finally lifted his eyes. Brimir nodded towards the rest of the keep. "Let's go," he said. "We've got several lifetimes of experience between the two of us—let's make them worth something."

* * *

The quiet chuckle behind him made Kozin turn. Sitting against the side of the boat, Theila was gazing down at the still form on the floor. "He wrapped a blanket around me to keep me from the cold, even though I was already dead," she remembered softly.

"That kind of love never ends. Not even after what happened to Valdre."

"I know it didn't," Theila replied. "But it was time for me to stop interfering, and he knew that. Bear was his and it was only proper that the school be run by witchers, not by…" Her lashes fluttered as she gave a roll of her eyes. "Not by some silly Continental lass, isn't that right?"

Kozin didn't answer, and instead asked, "How long was it before you saw him again?"

"I thought the next time I would go to Skellige, it would be for a funeral that would break my heart. But then I heard that King Jørn had turned to the druids and was trying to convince them to help him find the witcher keep. I heard of how he wanted to raze it to the ground. I broke my promise and rushed to the king." A bittersweet smile flickered onto her face. "Remember when we first met, Kozin? When I spoke to the grandmaster and a nosy little boy came to eavesdrop? That was the first time I had stepped into that keep since the day Undevar became grandmaster."

It'd felt like hundreds of lifetimes had passed since then. Kozin remembered when he had asked the grandmaster about Theila. _Forgive me, Grandmaster, but I couldn't help but notice something. You and her are a pair?_

No, the grandmaster had replied firmly, and though time had reduced the memory to vague recollections, Kozin knew he would have seen a liar's face on Undevar then.

"And despite everything I did," Theila sighed, "placating the king, delaying his progress as best I could, even blackmailing the druids to keep them from cooperating… Bear is still gone and so is he."

"You're just one person," Kozin said.

"I know. But sometimes I wish I were smaller so I wouldn't feel so terribly responsible. Just a speck." Theila propped an elbow on the edge of the boat and leaned her head on her hand. "I'll need to apologize to Cayessa once we get back," she remembered softly. "But just an apology doesn't seem like enough. What was wrong with me? Gods, I hope I didn't hurt her too badly."

"She's fine," Kozin reassured. He felt his spirits lift at the thought of the golden-haired sorceress. After everything he'd seen, he wanted nothing more than to feel her at his side again. Os and Addie too—the only people he had and the only ones he needed.

It was dusk on the third day since Kozin had left the Continent when they returned to its shores. With Theila's help, Kozin was able to land at the Bear encampment. Theila stepped out of the boat and Kozin followed, carrying the body of his grandmaster in his arms. Glancing over her shoulder, the sorceress said, "Dusk—the perfect time of day for a funeral." She turned back, but Kozin saw her hesitate when she saw the camp up ahead.

"Come on," he told her gently as he came up next to her. Theila walked with him.

Kozin knew Aegis was coming even before he saw the little mite flying towards them. But instead of jumping up at them, Aegis slowed as she neared. She gave Theila a weary look. The sorceress knelt down. Aegis watched her, and then trotted up to her. Theila wrapped her arms tightly around the dog. Aegis gave her a cheek a lick, and Kozin saw that naked tail begin wagging.

Footsteps hurried towards them. Kozin expected Andryk, but saw her running to them instead. Upon seeing the grandmaster in Kozin's arms, Cayessa stopped. They met eyes, and then the witcher gave a slight nod towards Theila. He stepped forward and, as he passed Cayessa, asked quietly, "Is the boat ready?"

"Yes," she answered. As Kozin walked, he listened to Cayessa as she went to Theila and crouched down. "Are you okay?" he heard her ask.

"I'm… I'm fine now," Theila replied.

When Kozin reached the camp, he saw all eyes turn towards him. At the sight of the grandmaster, the Bears rose. There on the shore sat three boats. The center one was empty, and the bodies of Masters Brimir and Ruadh lay in the ones on either side. It was time for a funeral.

The insides of the boats had been lined with furs—pulled off from the witchers that had prepared them. Whatever cloaks or wrappings they had to spare. Gently, Kozin lay Undevar down into the center boat. He placed the grandmaster's hands so that they draped over his stomach. The other Bears gathered around to pay their final respects.

"Damn bastard," Andryk muttered, his voice heavy with the lump in his throat. "Why couldn't he—?"

"Addie, it's too late now," Oslan interrupted. "Just tell him your goodbyes."

Andryk paused. Then, in a very soft voice, he said, "Used te think all I had fer a da was a spineless git. Now I know I've been thinkin' o'the wrong man. Me da—I couldn't have asked fer a better one. A braver one. I…" Andryk trailed off. And then, with a strong clearing of his throat, crossed his arms and turned away.

"Grandmaster," Oslan said. "You could have been furious when I chose Arda over the keep. Should have been. But you understood what she meant to me, and you welcomed her like family. I… I can't express my gratitude. When you see her, tell her I love her still."

One by one, the witchers said their parting words to Undevar and the masters. Kozin could feel Andryk and Oslan's eyes on him. Finally, Oslan was the one who said it. "Are you going to say anything, Ko?"

"I said all I wanted to say back at the keep," Kozin lied, keeping his eyes firmly glued down to the boat. "Let me get Theila—give her a chance to say something to him." He peeled away from the gathering and walked down the beach.

Just then, as he was trotting over the sand, he felt something light touch him. It could have been his imagination, but he knew better. Immediately, Kozin looked down and saw the empty spot in the row of potion vials running across his chest.

Out loud, Kozin said, "Coming to cause a bit of mischief for what he did to you?" He looked around and spotted a pair of lamp-like eyes peeking at him from behind a boulder. Kozin watched as she stepped out from around it. The missing potion vial was in her hand. In her other, she held a small demijohn encased in a netting of rope.

"Who are you? How do you know who I am?" Jesi demanded.

"I'm someone who was close to him." Kozin crouched down. "I know what he did to you was wrong. That man was different to the one lying in the boat now, and I know if he could have, he would've apologized to you." He held out a hand for the vial.

The godling watched him carefully as she slowly extended the potion towards his waiting hand. Then, just before it reached Kozin's palm, she quickly pulled it back. "I know," she said. "The stinky witcher found me again, but not before I snagged another one of his vials. But he didn't get mad like he was supposed to. He just said he was sorry. And then he told me he'd filled that one with honey mead just for me, so…" Jesi looked down at the demijohn in her hand. Leaving her sentence unfinished, she held it out for Kozin to take. As he did, the godling suddenly stamped her foot. "But don't you start thinking I care! I don't! He's just a big stinky witcher!" She threw the potion vial up into the air and disappeared into the darkness. Kozin quickly caught the glass before it could break on the rocky ground. After tucking it back into its strap, Kozin uncorked the demijohn and took a whiff. The aroma of very strong mead greeted him.

"Paying back for all the drink you stole from him?" Kozin asked. From the darkness, he heard a loud raspberry blown at him, followed by the receding pattering of feet.

Kozin rose and continued down the beach. The mead sloshed inside the demijohn as he walked. He found Cayessa and Theila sitting side by side on the beach and told them that the funeral was about to start. The sorceresses rose and followed Kozin back. As they walked, Kozin felt his medallion give a little jump and heard a quiet splash of water. Wordlessly, he looked out towards the sea and managed to catch the dim silhouette of a head before it dipped back beneath the surface.

A faint red glow traced the horizon by the time they reached the boats. Cayessa slowed upon seeing the boats, while Theila marched straight up to the center one. A reverent silence settled as Theila stooped gently over the grandmaster. She reached out and rested a hand over his cheek.

"Stories and songs will remember the last grandmaster of Bear as Undevar the Blackhearted. But I will always know better. I remember him as my love, my hero, and my dearest friend. Sail now, Undevar. This life has seen you at your worst and best, but now it's time for you to rest."

Theila straightened up and took a step back. Immediately, Cayessa came forward to stand at her side. Finally, Kozin tucked the demijohn next to the grandmaster. It was time to push the boats to water. Kozin planted his hands on the grandmaster's boat and heaved. The hull grated loudly against the gravelly sand. He let it cover his voice. "Thank you," he whispered, "for everything." Bow touched water and the tide swelled as if reaching to pull the vessels out.

Ripples were drawn in the water as the boats drifted towards the red horizon. While Kozin watched them, he felt Theila touch his arm and looked down. She was holding to him a bow and a single arrow. The arrowhead had been wrapped in cloth and smelled oily. Silently, Kozin took them and fitted the arrow on the bowstring. Next to him, Andryk and Oslan readied their arrows.

A small bulb of fire erupted from Theila's hand. One by one, the three witchers lit the flammable tips. The newly made flames burned bright pockets of light in the darkening air. As they were let loose, they streaked across the sky like tailed comets. The arrows stuck into the moving boats. Wood and fur were set afire, and suddenly the water reflected brilliantly the three pillars of flame.

He heard Theila begin to softly cry. Cayessa turned to hug her. "He would have told me not to cry," Theila said quietly. "But he was a man worth shedding tears over."

"It's okay," Cayessa reassured. "A man cried over is a man loved."

As Kozin watched the burning boats shrink, he felt Oslan step beside him. One hand came up and loosely gripped Kozin's shoulder. "Tonight marks the end of an era," he said.

"We're at a funeral, but you don't have to be so bleeding somber, mate," Kozin replied. He heard Oslan respond with a heavy exhale. "What happens now?"

"We continue down the Path like he wanted us to."

"What about come winter?"

"There are other witcher schools around, aren't there? There's Vintrica too, and you've got Cayessa."

Kozin sighed heavily. "Aye," he agreed. "First winter without the keep."

"It'll be a cold one."

The fires had become specks in the distance when the Bears returned to camp to settle for the night. Kozin stayed behind, sitting on the dark beach with his eyes focused on the fading lights. Talking about winter with Oslan had truly and finally brought to reality the realization that home was gone.

It was a much-needed rescue from his melancholy thoughts when Kozin's medallion gave another jump. He looked out and saw a form emerge from the water—head and shoulders. When the water pulled away, he saw the serpentine shape of a tail.

He had never met her before, but had lived through the memories of a man who had. Kozin watched as air turned her tail to legs. She rose and stepped delicately over to him. Then, she knelt down.

Even in the darkness of night, Kozin could see her face. It looked exactly as it had hundreds of years ago. "Iníomara," he greeted.

"Yes." She studied him closely. Under the gaze of this mermaid, Kozin couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious. "I am to deliver a message to you."

"From who?"

"Undevar of Tor Bhiethe."

Kozin blinked. "Pardon?"

"Long ago," Iníomara said, "Undevar passed to me a memory to safeguard. He told me to keep it until I find the one to show it to—'so that when fate comes for me, and I do not run from it, they will understand why.' That is what he said to me." Iníomara raised a hand, hovering it just inches away from Kozin's face. "With it also is a promise. Undevar knew he wouldn't be able to keep it, but trusted me to find the one who could. He told me I would recognize him as soon as I saw him. And I see you—I saw how you carried him to the boat and pushed him out to sea. I see what he meant to you in the loss reflected in your eyes."

"You'll show me the truth behind his death?" Kozin said.

"Not his death. Of that, you already know everything there is." Iníomara's hand drew closer to Kozin's face until one fingertip gently touched his forehead. Like disturbed water, Kozin's vision was suddenly blurred by a series of soft ripples. When they stilled, he saw that he was no longer on a beach.

* * *

He was in a boat over the ocean. Theila lay bundled in his arms, cold as death, as he held her out for the matriarch to observe. Her pale blue reptilian eyes swept over the dead woman in silent contemplation. Then, Undevar heard the words in his head.

 _There is a way_.

"There is?" Undevar repeated incredulously. But he remembered what Pascal had told him back in Vintrica and added, "And at what cost?"

The icy gaze of the matriarch returned to him. _Undevar of Tor Bhiethe, before you can understand the price, you must understand the workings of fate. Imagine it as a tapestry—one that stretches further and further as time passes. When an event occurs, it is stitched into this tapestry. Once needled in, the design cannot be changed. Once stitched, it remains indefinitely. Every little aspect of life is its own pattern—a sunset. A rainfall. A birth. A death._

The matriarch dipped her head a little closer towards the boat. _She has passed from this world, and so the tapestry has expanded for the pattern of a death to be stitched. Fate has commanded that there be one. But I, bender of fate, can alter reality while still remaining true to the tapestry's design. Fate can have the death it demands, but I can reassign whom that stitching belongs to. Do you understand?_

"A life for a life," Undevar said.

 _In a way, yes_.

"And is it my own I must barter?"

 _Yours is the only one that you hold the authority to give._

Undevar paused. It was a heavy price indeed, and one that he was so suddenly confronted with. But he was resolute. "What good have I placed into this world? What good compared to her?"

 _Before you carry on, I must remind you that you always have the option to walk away._

"And that I won't. I failed her once, Matriarch. Besides…" Undevar looked down. "World would be a lot better if there were more people around like her, and less like me. So make this exchange."

 _Interesting. I see what this world might offer to you should you turn away now. You would be known across several lands. Your might and fame would have surpassed that of a wolf's yet to come. A thousand years will pass and you still reign champion over this world._

Undevar didn't know whether the prediction the matriarch told him was true or not. Even if it was, he didn't want it. "A mighty grand life that would be," he said. "But it sounds awful lonely."

 _You are steadfast. Very well, you will have what you ask for._

He wasn't sure what to expect. Some fancy magic show, or maybe that he would simply drop dead there on the spot. But nothing happened except that the matriarch dipped her head lower until it was nearly aligned on the water with the boat. Her eyes pierced him. Then, with a blink of her nictitating membrane, she lifted her head back up.

 _My master once told me that one with my power should remain as neutral as nature itself. But I am a creature of sentience while nature is not. I am impressed by your selflessness, Undevar of Tor Bhiethe. My visions of Undevar the Mighty have changed now. I see what the world will be without you and with you. With you and with her at your side. I see the lives you will touch and, in turn, the lives they will touch. I see hope and, even if it is small in comparison to the greater design, it is strong. You need not give your life this day. Though you are now indebted to fate, I will see to it that remittance is delayed for as long as I have the power to do so. Remember now that your life is forfeit, and you may relinquish it as you see fit. But before you do, always keep in mind the lives you will touch. What good have you placed into this world, you asked? Find the answer yourself._

 _And, in exchange for this, I ask a favor of you._

"A favor?" Undevar repeated. He was having trouble following the words spoken to him—it all seemed too good to be true, and he was wondering at what point he was going to wake up.

 _Yes, a mighty one. One that you yourself may not be able to complete, but have the responsibility to see that it will be. Ten days before Yule, in the year 1143, a child of mixed blood will enter this world atop a hill by the territory called Tretogor. Ensure that this child reaches safety, so that certain events will be destined to come to pass._

"1143… that's… centuries from now."

 _As I said, your debt may come to claim you before then. But you will see this through, or know that you have allowed this world to be claimed by an unfeeling, unyielding destroyer of life._

"Who?" Undevar demanded.

Instead of answering, the matriarch simply said, _The exchange has been made. She will return. Remember what I have told you. When death comes beckoning, do not run from it._

The wind whistled low as the matriarch swung her head back around and delicately arched her neck. Gentle waves were pushed through the water as Gwyliwr rested her head, once again becoming nothing more than an island with a curved peninsula.

Undevar sat back down in the boat, using one hand to steady himself on the edge while the other still wrapped around Theila. His mind raced with the matriarch's voiceless words. _Debt… Death… Tretogor… 1143… An unfeeling, unyielding destroyer of life._

 _Witcher_ , Pascal suddenly said. Undevar looked over as the red dragon unfurled his wings. _The Matriarch is done. It is time for us to leave._

* * *

Kozin spent several minutes in silence, staring out over the water. The mermaid stayed. Perhaps she knew that the witcher still had things to say, even if he was reluctant now. And she was right.

"And so when death came for him, he didn't run," Kozin muttered.

"He didn't."

"Theila never saw that memory. When she looked into his head, it was missing."

"And had she learned the truth, she would have felt wholly responsible for his death," Iníomara said. "He never wanted that." She turned to Kozin. "But do you understand what Undevar has passed to you?"

"That favor," Kozin recalled. "1143. That's still 15 years from now." He puzzled for a moment. "On a hill near Tretogor? There must be hundreds of hills around Tretogor!"

"How easily you are dismayed," Iníomara said. "Will you back down from this task then?"

"What? Nay, nay, I just…" Kozin paused. "I'll figure it out. But who is the unyielding destroyer the Matriarch spoke of?"

"It is not a question of who," Iníomara said, "but of what."

"Alright. What is it?"

"Do you remember what your coldest winter was like? The biting, freezing temperatures and swirling, pale tempests? Surely you must have thought to yourself that no life should remain in the wake of this brutal frost. But remain it did, because life was patient and it waited. That wait was rewarded with the melting of the ice and the return of all things green and good.

"Now imagine if nothing ever came at the end of that wait. The winter lasted on and on, growing in ferocity until life, struggling to the very last breath, perished. That is the destroyer the matriarch spoke of—a winter with no end called the White Frost."

"How is that possible?" Kozin asked. "Winter always sees an end. That is the way the world works."

"The White Frost does not come from this world. I know not of where it originates, but it has consumed many worlds like this and left barren tundra in its wake. The home in which the matriarch was born was likely consumed by the White Frost. She has seen the same fate for this world, but she also sees a solution—a way to stop the unrelenting winter, or at the very least delay it. Whatever it is, it will be on that hill."

"A child," Kozin remembered. "Must be one damn important bairn."

"I have heard there exists a race that has unlocked the power to temper the White Frost. But that power is young and, I imagine, ineffective."

Kozin shrugged. Other worlds? Races with poppycock powers? Sounded like a barrelful of mince and bull to him, but what did he know? And this 'saving the world' business? The world was shite, and it had just stripped him bare of everything he ever cared for. But he knew that ten days before Yule in the year 1143, he would be looking on every hilltop around Tretogor.

"I'll do it," Kozin said, "not for this world. I'll do it for Undevar and the trust he placed in me."

"That is just as noble a cause," Iníomara said. With her part to play fulfilled, she stood and returned to the water. Left alone with his thoughts, Kozin took out his pipe and filled the chamber. The lights on the horizon had gone out. Kozin puffed quietly on the thin end of the clawed pipe until all that remained was gray ash. Then he returned to the camp.

The next day, Kozin, Andryk, and Oslan returned to the Bear keep one last time with Theila. They gathered everything that made it a witcher school—the alchemy recipes, instructions, and equipment that would allow one to replicate Bear's Trials, and sealed them away in three enchanted chests. They took the chests out to water in a boat, where they sailed and sailed for hours without the aid of any compass and no landmass to tell them where they were. There, they dropped the chests overboard.

Kozin watched as they sank, becoming nothing but dark masses underneath the rippling water. When they finally shrank out of view, a portal brought the boat back to the Bear encampment. Kozin couldn't help but wonder how Undevar would have reacted if he had known what they'd done.

Perhaps he would have been furious. Or perhaps he would have understood that even if they had brought the keep back, it would never be the same one they knew.

'Onwards down the Path,' Kozin thought. 'That's the witcher's way, isn't it? And in 15 years, I have a promise to keep.'

* * *

 _But as you go_

 _I want you to know_

 _That I will not forget_

 _All the ways you've grown me_

 _I hope someday_

 _We will meet again_

 _And maybe then_

 _We won't have to say goodbye_

"As You Go"—Jess Penner


	69. Chapter 69 - A Promise Kept

It happened without fail for several years that the reddening and browning of leaves would make Kozin tell himself that it was not too long until he could return to the Bear keep and be reunited with everyone. The hearth in the great hall would crackle and keep the cold at bay while the tables were lined with witchers and their drink. Undevar would sit closest to the fire with his bucket-sized tankard of hot cider perched on his knee while the masters taught the youngest witchers how to play gwent. A rowdy brawl would break out on the other side of the hall between a couple of drunken young'uns. It would be Kozin's and his contemporaries' turns to pull them apart and give them a right wallop over the heads, calling them ninnies and barking at them to behave in a lady's presence if Theila or Cayessa happened to be present.

Those warm, familiar memories—they'd quickly drown in the cold realization that those were days long gone. Kozin would remember that the keep was lost and there'd be no more winters spent in the great hall. No more chances to sit with the grandmaster by the hearth, smelling the spiced aroma of cider and watching him add another log to the fire.

"Wrap up, laddie," Undevar would tell him, bundling him under sweltering furs. It used to annoy Kozin every time, and once he was out of the grandmaster's view, those furs would quickly be discarded.

Now, Kozin would have given anything to feel Undevar wrap him in his fur cloak. He wished he could listen to the grandmaster lecture him on all the things he thought he already knew just to hear his voice again.

He had wintered with the Wolves at Kaer Morhen once. He didn't get to meet Vesemir, the witcher from Undevar's memories, as he had not returned to the keep that year. Kozin did, however, find other Wolves who remembered the old Bear. They offered their condolences and told Kozin stories of their time with Undevar. A righteous man he was, they recalled. The kind who would rather risk his own hide for the greater good than take the easy way out.

"Fitting he went out defending all he loved," they told him. "There is no death more honorable than that." Kozin would only nod. Deep down, the thought that the general populace of Skellige had and would continue to deface the story of that death twisted inside his gut like a blade. Despite what the grandmaster had told him on the shores of that island, Kozin couldn't just leave things the way they were. The world was going to know the true Undevar. When winter ended, Kozin set out on a mission.

Summertime heat herded the crowds indoors. Their parched throats meant that the tavern cellars would empty by the barrel. While the patrons had their first and second rounds, a bard sat perched on the edge of a small stage. A few heads from the crowd turned to briefly watch the musician, realizing that there was going to be song in the air soon. But they'd have to wait. He wasn't quite ready yet.

As the bard tuned his lute, his mind quickly skimmed over the song he was prepared to play. It was a new one, and a tavern was a good place to introduce it to new ears. Folks here weren't as choosy about their songs, so long as it provided a good melody to drink to or a story to tell. If this one were received well, he'd be playing it at galas and festivals next. Though the bard was already adamant that this piece would go far—he'd spent months polishing and polishing it. It was how he treated any good ballad, and this one was gold.

Funny that such a good story would come from a source that had been insistent on receiving as little recognition as possible. Perhaps it was because he'd been a witcher. His only request was that the bard tell him in advance when he would be showcasing the final product. "And when you do," the witcher had said, "play with everything in your heart and soul. There'll be an important member in your audience."

The bard twisted the peg just a hair and plucked the string it was attached to. He gave the peg another twitch, and strummed again. Finally, he was satisfied. It was time.

The air was still full of evening chatter. To signal for silence, the bard strummed a deep, reverberating chord. He heard the chatter die down, though there were still several voices left. After another few chords, the tavern quieted down enough for him to begin.

And then the first real chord was played. It was given a second to dissipate into the air before it was followed by another. Then another. They were followed by a string of plucked notes, the melody as sad and sweet as the tale it precluded.

In a soft voice he began, telling the quiet crowd of a sea-faring warrior. Tough was his armor, his will, but soft was his heart, and he was known across the isles of Skellige as the Silver Bear. As a boy, he had never been taught to smile until he met an olive-eyed dove. She showed him how to smile, to laugh, to cry, and to love. And in exchange for it all, she asked for his heart, which he gladly gave.

But his clan had been a rotten one, for he had been a diamond in the rough. Angered were the gods at the foulness of that clan, and they demanded repentance. They pointed at the dove, but the Bear stood over her and declared that they smite him instead. Before they were to part, he turned to his dove as tears fell from her olive eyes and told her his final words.

 _"If I am remembered by none else than the name of my birth,"_ the bard sang, as though echoing the words of the Silver Bear himself. _"Of foulness, of greed, let it be so. I sacrifice it all—all that I am, given to me, now returned to you. Like a gem on its chain, carry me next to your heart, that I may live in every beat. Echo me in your laughter. Sing me in your songs."_ One final strum, and the bard lifted his eyes to the silent crowd as his last line was sung alone. _"And friends_. _"_ His voice was soft—just barely above a whisper. _"Remember him."_

Not a sound followed his voice, until the tavern-goers collected themselves and gave raucous applause. The bard dipped his head in response, very pleased by the reception his newest piece had gotten. The festival-goers and gala invitees would surely hear this one. After a short break, the bard would continue the nightly entertainment with a few of his tried and true songs.

He tried not to watch the open sack on the ground as a few of his audience came up to toss coins into it, but found his eye occasionally drawn to it. To distract himself, he waved over a barmaid and asked for water to soothe his throat. As soon as the barmaid left, a woman approached him. She thanked him for the song, telling him that its beauty had touched her.

"Your words are more precious to me than coin, my lady, but I'm afraid words do not keep me fed," the bard replied as he looked back up at the woman. He quickly paused as he met her gaze. The trails of her tears still glistened on her cheeks. The bard noticed that her eyes were a beautiful shade of olive.

Before he could say anything, the woman turned towards the sack. A small canvas pouch was dropped into it, and the bard could hear the weighty thud of coins. She didn't say another word to him. He watched as she made straight for the exit and disappeared out the door.

* * *

The moon sat over the cold earth, casting its light across the pale hills and setting them aglow with the glimmer of snow. It alone bore silent witness to the solitary figure trekking through the unforgiving chill. Deep footprints in the crisp snow told of the figure's meticulous journey from one hilltop to the next.

It must have been close to midnight by now. Bits of fluffy ice stuck to Kozin's hair and beard, now rendering them more white than black. The pain in the tip of his nose and ears had now succumbed to stark numbness. He'd lost count of how many hilltops he had searched. Standing on one now, his gaze swept across the rolling, snow-covered landscape and his heart sank at the sight of just how many hills there were that his footprints hadn't yet touched.

But he was determined, and he told himself he'd be out here even when the sun began peeking over the horizon if he had to.

A cold wind swept over him, running icy lashes again across his exposed skin. From there, the chill seeped into the rest of his body and forced a deep shiver out of him. Kozin bunched the fur tighter against his face and carried on, finding meager solace in the warm puffs of his trapped breath.

As he climbed the steep slope, digging his boots deep into the snow to keep himself from slipping, he knew something was off when he saw it pushing up from under the soft ice. Kozin paused and stooped down, still reluctant to believe his eyes when the sight was plainly in front of his face.

The small bud of a flower was sprouting out from beneath the snow, defying all logic. Kozin reached out and gingerly pinched it. It wasn't frozen and its pale green stem was firm. Looking up, he saw that the bud wasn't alone. Towards the top of the hill, more sprouts had emerged. Kozin straightened up and hurried to the top of the hill. There, he found her.

Even in death, she was beautiful. Kozin couldn't tell who she might have been—all he knew was that she was an elf. She lay on her side, her body curled in a fetal position with her arms wrapped tightly over her stomach. Something shifted from within. When Kozin knelt down and moved one cold arm aside, a pair of wide, round eyes looked up at him.

The babe was too weak to even cry. Her mother's heat had kept her alive, and when that faded her arms had given her shelter from the wind. Budding flowers had sprouted all around them. Gazing down at them, the woman who seemed to demand reverence even as she lay frozen, and the child's eyes, Kozin wondered if maybe the White Frost and this ancient, powerful race might've actually existed.

Gently, he reached down and took the babe. As if knowing that she was being removed from the safety of her mother's arms, the child gave a small whimper through her feeble throat. Suddenly, a gust of wind hit them. Alarmed, Kozin quickly turned his back to it and cradled the babe tightly against his chest. He looked up, his face conveying his hopelessness.

"What am I going to do?" he wondered aloud, his words puffing white clouds in front of his face. "What would you have done, Grandmaster?" Was he to take her and raise her as his own? No, he couldn't do that, because… he just couldn't do that!

Kozin did the only thing he knew he could do. Reaching up, he touched the stone dangling from his ear.

* * *

The crackling warmth of the fire had never felt so welcomed. Kozin could finally feel his face again. He turned away from the hearth and watched as Cayessa tested the temperature of the warm milk. The pot hovered up and poured the creamy liquid into a nearby bottle on its own, as the sorceress's arms were preoccupied with the snugly wrapped bundle. Once the bottle was filled, a leather-made teat hopped up and secured itself to the opening.

"Who was she?" Cayessa asked, holding the teat to the babe, who immediately began nursing. "And what was she doing up on that hill?"

"Haven't the slightest," Kozin answered, gazing over at the blanket-covered body.

"The little one might be mixed," Cayessa said. "It's too early to tell, but I'm willing to bet she's got a human father." Looking sadly down at the child, she continued, "That makes her mother's story a lot more understandable. I've seen many who've shared it."

"What are we going to do, Cay?" Kozin asked.

The sorceress was quiet as she deliberated. "For now, she stays with me while I make sure her condition is steady. As for her…" Cayessa looked up at the form under the blanket. "We should bury her, shouldn't we? It breaks my heart to have to put her in a nameless grave, but that's the only thing we can do."

"And the bairn?"

Cayessa looked down. She gently moved the bottle away from the child and propped her up against her shoulder. From the way Cayessa rested her cheek against the babe as she patted her back, Kozin could clearly tell what the sorceress wanted. Again, he looked away.

"If she's connected, I can raise her until she's old enough to start at Vintrica."

Kozin already knew she was connected, remembering what Iníomara had told him. "She can't stay here," he said quietly.

"Why not?"

"There are a lot of things you don't understand." He hoped he wouldn't have to explain himself. He peeked up at Cayessa. Judging by her crestfallen look, her sensibility had finally peaked over her longing.

"I'm far too busy to be raising a child," she agreed, sounding as though she were trying to convince herself. "There'd be so many patients I wouldn't have the time to see." Still pressing her cheek against the child, Cayessa asked, "So what _are_ we going to do with her? We can't just drop her off at the nearest town, Kozin. I've seen how half-elves in the orphanages are treated—we can't leave her to that!"

"Let me head back into Tretogor. I'll ask around and see if anyone can shed some more light on our mystery woman."

"And do your witcher thing?" Cayessa said.

Kozin grinned. "Do my witcher thing."

Pulling information in a busy town wasn't too hard. Kozin had long since learned the basic trick—find the biggest mouth in the city and get it running. More often than not, they would be found in convenient proximity to alcohol. It'd pull considerable weight from Kozin's coin bag to buy enough rounds, but eventually the superficial bullshit that usually spilled forth would give way to darker truths.

Kozin had found his haggard target and spent the night matching him round for round. While the strong lager bogged his companion down, he felt as clear-headed as he had been when first stepping foot into the tavern.

Up until now, the drunken man had burbled out odds and ends—all useless to Kozin. Then he turned the topic to Queen Cerro, namely all the ways he'd like to plough her. Kozin was on the verge of abandoning this dullard when suddenly he heard the man say something peculiar.

"Aye, a fine piece of arse she is," the drunk burbled. "Damn shame she got that curse on her, though."

Kozin's interest was sharply piqued. He had never heard of any curse that had been placed on Redania's queen. "Curse?" he repeated. He needn't have even prompted—the drunk was ready to spring on the topic like a starved dog on a chicken thigh.

"Aye, curse! Real nasty one too, from the sounds of it. Only got it a few days ago, from what I 'erd, but it was the talk of the town."

"How'd she get cursed?"

"Got it from a witch who sprang at her carriage as Her Majesty was riding through the hills just yonder." He bobbed his head a certain direction, though Kozin knew it was the entirely wrong one. "Screechin' at Her Majesty to take her babe and raise it as though it were the queen's own. Know what Cerro said to her carriage driver? 'Don't slow down,' she told 'im. Her Majesty had no mind to take up some witch's spawn, not when she got plenty o'er own. But as she was drivin' away, the witch's voice followed her—was cursing her name and her line and anything else she could think of."

"And how do you know all this? Could just be poppycock for all we know."

The drunk seemed highly offended at having his credibility questioned. "Oi now—heard it from the carriage driver himself! Aren't no other source as reliable as that!"

"Hmm," Kozin grunted. He doubted the man's definition of 'reliable,' but said nothing more. He stood, ready to leave.

"Oi, mate! Sit your arse back down! How 'bout another round, aye?"

"'Fraid not," Kozin replied. "Have to head back, and I'm sure the missus won't be right too pleased to have her man stumbling home pissed as a dog." Another round of lager would've been like drinking water to him, but he really just wanted to leave.

The drunk scoffed. "She got your balls in her hand."

"That she does," Kozin responded simply and stepped out of the bench. He bunched his cloak around his neck as he pushed the door open and was greeted by a blast of icy wind.

Back at the sorceress's tower, Kozin told Cayessa about the rumor of the queen's curse. He softened the drunk's words, but still Cayessa's face soured. "They called her a witch?" she said hotly. "Those… those…!" Anger stifled her words, and to comfort herself she held the babe closer.

"Did she really curse Cerro? Can you tell?"

"Meaning do I have a curse radar that stretches all the way to the castle? Of course not." Cayessa leaned back in her plush chair. "Even if she was a mage, I don't think she would… Then again, she was a desperate mother trying to save her baby…" She fell silent, and Kozin saw that deep, slightly conniving look cross her eyes that he was always wary of. "Cursed or not, this is good. We could use this."

"I don't like where this is going," Kozin stated baldly.

"You don't have to, but it's what we have to do. For her." Cayessa looked down at the sleeping babe. "With the queen, she'd be alright—away from crime and poverty. And if she _is_ connected, there'll be a court mage for her."

"Cerro's already made it clear she wants nothing to do with this bairn," Kozin pointed out. "And I doubt turning her ma into a sob story is going to help."

"Maybe not," Cayessa replied, "but that's where the curse comes in."

"The curse that we don't even know actually exists?"

"Any caster can place a curse," Cayessa said.

Kozin paused. The moment he caught up with her line of thinking, he scowled. "Cay, you can't—."

"It wouldn't do any harm," Cayessa interjected quickly. "Not much." The babe shifted in her arms. "We'll need a bit of theatrics for this to work. Come on, Kozin. You can be my supporting actor."

* * *

Kozin had been pulled around, prepared, and harassed enough to make a prized antique to be auctioned off jealous. He swore that if another court lackey pulled him aside to tidy up his dress, critique his mannerisms, or give him a rundown on more useless shite, he was going to give up and go home. And goddamn it, this doublet was far too tight around the neck.

Finally, he was led down the corridor towards the throne room. As Kozin approached the door, he heard a voice announcing the witcher as he had introduced himself.

"Your Royal Highness—the witcher, Kozin of Tor Bhiethe."

The page before Kozin pushed open the door for him, allowing him to step through. Immediately, Kozin thought back to the instructions shoved onto him earlier that day. Four steps past the threshold, and then what? Bow? Was he to address her as "Your Royal Highness" before that, or after? Was it even 'Your Royal Highness' or 'Your Majesty'? It didn't matter. Fuck it. Only a damned fool would expect a Skelliger to do this silly little court dance.

Kozin could practically feel the chamberlain's panic as he reached his fourth step and continued on without a break in his stride. He stopped just short of the steps that led up to the throne and the woman sat in it before lowering himself down on one knee. "Your Royal Highness," he greeted with a bow of his head. He looked up and found himself returning the quiet, thoughtful gaze of round eyes set in a soft, delicate face of elven features.

Based on what he had heard, Kozin had expected Queen Cerro of Redania to be a woman with a cruel heart that reflected on her face—with beauty used as a weapon. He hadn't expected her to be a half-elf.

"Kozin of Tor Bhiethe." Her voice was just as fair as her appearance. "You know of why I have called you?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I do." He saw the sadness in her eyes and wondered if maybe they had taken things too far. Quickly, he reminded himself that this was for Undevar, and that voice of doubt quieted.

"Several mages have attempted to treat him," Cerro said. "And still his condition worsens."

'I wouldn't think so,' Kozin thought to himself. 'Doubt any fuddy duddy court mage can outmatch a Magus of Restoration.'

"Does Your Majesty suspect it to be more than an illness?"

"And more than a curse," Cerro replied. "But I will leave the passing of judgment to you once you have looked over him." She gestured, and Kozin rose to his feet. The chamberlain approached him, but Cerro quickly said, "No, I will take him."

Kozin followed the queen out of the throne room. She led him to a closed door and, beyond it, was the sleeping chambers of her eldest son. The young prince lay in his bed, and the face that peeked over his covers was pale and clammy. His breathing was harsh and uncomfortable to listen to. Kozin stopped by the bed and, knowing the eyes of the queen and her chamberlain were on him, reached up to dramatically clasp his medallion. The reaction it gave to the spell inflicted on the prince certainly helped with the show.

"Hmm," Kozin hummed quizzically, still staring down at the young man. "Your Majesty is correct. This is no mere curse."

"Then what is it?" Cerro asked.

"If Your Majesty would give me a moment…" The queen gave him a small nod. Kozin let go of his medallion and let it hum freely against his collar. He crouched down and peered underneath the bed. Then he stood back up and ran a hand along one of the bedposts. Stepping over to the nightstand, Kozin opened the small drawer, waited a few seconds, and then closed it. To be honest, he didn't know what the hell he was doing. "Make a show" was what Cayessa had told him, and he was doing just that… probably.

"This goes beyond my expertise," Kozin finally admitted, turning back to the queen. He saw the glimpse of quickly concealed disappointment in her round eyes. "There is an element of imprecation, true, but the illness it nurtures has become independent. If the scourge and the ailment are to be combated, it must be done so simultaneously. I wish to be transparent with Your Majesty—disease lies outside of my scope."

The despair on Cerro's face was swiftly replaced with determined calculation. "Then you require the assistance of a mage—I will trust no doctor with a magic-induced illness." She turned back to the chamberlain and told him, "Fetch Oswald."

The chamberlain left the room. Kozin had anticipated this response, and quietly waited a few seconds so as to not interrupt the queen. "Your Majesty, the court mage cannot help me. Do not think me questioning the capabilities of Redania's esteemed advisor, but given the identity of this patient I would think it best to consult a Magus. Namely that of Restoration."

"A Magus?" Cerro repeated. Her brow furrowed slightly. "I know not of such a rank coming from Ban Ard."

"Magi do not originate from Ban Ard," Kozin clarified, guessing that this was the school that Redania's Oswald had graduated from. "Does Your Majesty know of Vintrica? Up in the north?"

"I've heard vague mentions," Cerro replied. "I must admit my knowledge of schools of sorcery are lacking, Kozin. I leave that area of expertise to Oswald."

On cue, the doors to the chamber reopened and in stepped the gaudiest sight Kozin had ever seen. "Vintrica, Your Majesty, is a school of sorcery nestled deep in the Dragon Mountains. I hear their reputation is… decent. However, they only take in female students." Kozin's hackles pricked at the way Oswald had sneered the word 'however.'

"And what exactly is a Magus?"

"A graduated sorceress that has undergone additional extensive training to master a specific branch of magic," Kozin quickly cut in. He'd be damned if he let this Oswald, with a look on his clean-shaven face more pretentious than his painfully colorful robes, get another nasally sneer in.

Fortunately, Cerro didn't seem to mind the brash interruption. "And this Magus of Restoration… she has mastered the healing arts?"

"That is correct, Your Majesty."

"Restoration is quite simple. It astounds me that an _esteemed_ Vintrican sorceress would require decades to master it, much less choose it as a branch of magic to pursue." Kozin sorely wished he could've been in a dark alleyway with this mage instead of in the queen's presence.

"Then surely," Kozin said, gesturing towards the bed where the weak young man lay, "Redania's prince should have been right as rain by now."

"It's tricky," Oswald replied stonily, crossing his arms. "And as Her Majesty pointed out, this is no mere curse."

'Having trouble with Cay's little jinx, are we?' Kozin thought.

"Who is this Magus?" Cerro suddenly asked. "I would like to assess her before she sees to my son."

"Her name is Cayessa Ilia-Ana, Your Majesty. She has been an actively practicing Magus for 40 years now." He heard Oswald sniff disdainfully and told himself getting thrown in a Tretogorian jail cell wasn't worth it.

"Ilia-Ana?" Cerro repeated incredulously. "King Vridank's…" Even Oswald had dropped his arms, though he quickly crossed them back over his chest.

"Pardon?" Kozin ventured. He knew Cayessa's skill must have given her some renown, but he hadn't expected such a reaction from the queen.

"My husband's great uncle was Lord Caden Ilia-Ana," Cerro told him. "I heard he had a daughter—a strange young child. One day a hearth exploded, injuring several children including another one of my husband's cousins. Lord Caden's daughter, according to hearsay, was the only one that remained unscathed. Apparently she was sent away to a lady's boarding school and was subsequently married to a lord in Temeria."

Kozin was silent, even after Cerro had finished speaking. He had never given Cayessa's life before her arrival at Vintrica any thought. Maybe her spoiled, apathetic attitude as an adolescent should have made aristocratic origins no surprise, but Kozin would have never imagined that she had connections to the royal lineage of Redania. For some reason, the new light depressed him.

With a shrug, the witcher said, "Could be her, could not be. Either way, I'll need her help."

From the way Cerro's fair face softened, Kozin could tell the discovery of this Magus being a possible blood relative to the king had convinced her. "Very well. Have her come to Tretogor."

Kozin, of course, feigned having no way of contacting Cayessa and sat around while Oswald ran around in circles, having to contact Vintrica and finding out that the golden-haired sorceress was absent from the marble palace. It took a few days until the frustrated court mage finally reached out to Cayessa. Meanwhile, Kozin pretended to treat the prince with what he told Cerro were remedies to keep the illness at bay. In truth, they were nothing more than simple teas and edible mushrooms. Nevertheless the prince's condition remained stable because, after all, Cayessa's jinx had never meant to kill.

On the third day, Lady Cayessa Ilia-Ana arrived in Tretogor. Kozin immediately recognized the beautiful, beaded gown as brand new and wanted to roll his eyes, but quickly reminded himself that he was to remain in character. It was hard—new dress or not, she was breathtaking. Even Oswald's sour look dropped at the sight of her before quickly reclaiming its place.

The sorceress greeted the king and queen of Redania with a routine that reminded Kozin of what those court ninnies had tried to make him do, though he was aware that Cayessa had just arrived and hadn't first been fussed around. He looked away, instead thinking of the sorceress in her breeches and boots trekking through the thick, rugged wilderness with him. He didn't know what was spurring these kinds of reactions—maybe it was this intrusion on the image of the Cayessa he knew. The one that he loved.

'Enough of that,' Kozin quickly snapped to himself. He never appreciated this kind of soppiness, and he wasn't about to start now. Instead, he focused back on the conversation in the throne room. Introductions and formalities were wrapping up, and Queen Cerro was asking Oswald to lead Cayessa to the sick prince. 'Fucking hell, not that ball bag.' Kozin wasn't too keen on seeing how the haughty court mage would behave in the presence of a Vintrican sorceress that he had made _so_ clear he respected.

Indeed, once they were by the prince's bedside, Oswald proceeded to give a rundown of the young man's condition as though Cayessa had never heard of a disease before. Kozin kept his arms tightly crossed to stave away the temptation of grabbing the court mage with them. His fingers tapped impatiently on his arm while Cayessa, on the other hand, kept up a pleasant smile as Oswald lectured her. Kozin saw that smile twitch every now and then.

"No," Cayessa cut in suddenly the next time Oswald referred to the curse. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. It's not a curse."

At having his authority questioned, the mage's hackles rose. "It has been identified as a curse," he said matter-of-factly.

"By you?"

"By _Her Majesty."_

"Funny." Kozin caught that hint of sass that he was all too familiar with in the sorceress's voice. "I thought Her Highness would have tasked _you_ with handling all matters fey, being a mage in her court. Are you simply for show then?"

Oswald's eyes flashed, though in Cerro's presence he dared not escalate things. Instead, he muttered under his breath, "Now listen here, woman—."

"A plague curse requires a physical beacon to be placed in proximity to the target, Your Highness," Cayessa interrupted, now directing her words to the queen. "I've detected no such object in or around the castle."

"The ailments have been confirmed to have magical origins," Cerro said. "If not a curse, then what causes it?"

"A spirit."

The queen paled a little. "I'm… sorry?"

"I'm not too familiar with the supernatural—perhaps the witcher would like to correct me should I get anything wrong." Cayessa shot Kozin a look, and he swore he saw the hint of a sly smile on her lips. "But sometimes a soul, if deeply wronged, departs this world as a spirit with anger powerful enough… well, that anger resides here as dark energy. That energy lingers until it finds a living soul to latch on and torment—often the one who had wronged the spirit."

"My son? A spirit has targeted my son?" Immediately, Cerro's eyes grew distant as she attempted to recall any reason why the prince would be the target of someone's anger.

"Your Highness, sometimes the echoes of the spirit's last living words may be pulled from this dark energy," Cayessa suggested. Kozin was astounded the sorceress hadn't burst out laughing from the outrageous bull coming from her mouth. "If we know who is plaguing the prince, we'll be able to take the steps to appease them."

"Yes… I agree. How is this done?"

"If Your Majesty will pardon my interruption," Oswald suddenly spoke up. "This all sounds absolutely ridiculous to me. Surely we should not allow these two to perform absurd rituals on the prince—it simply does not seem safe!"

"Then what would you suggest?" Cayessa shot back. "Let him get worse and worse?"

"I never said—!"

"I've the tools necessary to bring spirits into the visible plane," Kozin cut in. "Though in my experience, they're never too pleased about it. I'll need help keeping the prince's condition stable while I pull the spirit out."

"Well," Cayessa said, "you're lucky I'm here then." Kozin tried not to stare at her sultry gaze. It made staying in character very difficult.

It was decided that the pulling of the spirit would commence in the morning, as Cerro insisted that her son have a night's rest before he was to undergo such a strenuous experience. Kozin was given a room within the castle to stay at and Cayessa politely turned down a room by saying she needed to make preparations in her tower.

Kozin had taken the liberty of bathing in the nice, spacious washroom provided to him. An array of bath soaps and pouches of perfumed salts had been laid out for him, but he had ignored them all and settled in the steamy water. He could just imagine Cayessa's face if he showed up in the morning smelling like a sorceress himself.

At the end of the night he was quite comfortable wearing only his briefs and laying in the softest bed he had touched in a while. With his hands resting atop his abdomen, Kozin was prepared to drift off when a familiar voice wormed its way into his head.

 _You did well today. I'm impressed._ That cheeky little minx. _Are you thinking of me?_

 _I am now_ _that you're crowding my head_.

Cayessa's giggle echoed in his head. _Do you miss me? Doesn't it just_ kill _you knowing that I'm so close yet so far?_

 _You know, you could just pop in here for a while. I'm sure no one would be the wiser._

 _I can't. I got the little one here to look after._ The sorceress's voiceless words grew snooty. _Besides, I like making you wait_.

Kozin grunted and rolled over onto his side. _No more of this then. I'm going to sleep._

 _Ohhh, Kozin! You know I'm just teasing you!_ When there was no answer, Cayessa ventured, _Kozin? Kozin! Hellooo? I know you can hear me!_ Again, there was no answer. The sorceress huffed loudly in his head, and suddenly there was a sharp, electrical zap of pain in Kozin's rear that made the witcher jolt. He felt Cayessa leave his mind as he reached back to rub his stinging buttock.

* * *

Cerro looked visibly nervous and Oswald never strayed from his suspicious scowl. Kozin was uneasy himself, unsure of how this faux ritual would go down. He and Cayessa had only briefly spoken to go over what would happen. However, their little conspiring had to be cut short for fear of Oswald detecting it. All Cayessa had told him was that Kozin was to leave it to her.

Standing over the ill prince, the witcher opened a pouch containing silver dust. Last night he had taken apart a Moon Dust bomb, hoping its shimmery contents would appear appropriate in a spirit-related ritual.

He looked at Cayessa, who gave him a small dip of her head. Kozin circled around the bed, leaving at his feet a thin trail of the silver dust until the bed was completely encircled by it. He was surprised when the dust suddenly began glowing a deep purple, and realized this was Cayessa taking the reins. Glancing at Cerro, he said, "Your Majesty might want to take a step back." Cerro did, and Oswald moved protectively closer to her.

A sharp series of sparks erupted from the glowing dust. Kozin was worried that Cayessa might've actually set them on fire—he hadn't gotten the chance to tell her there was actually explosive powder mixed in with the dust. This had, after all, come from a bomb.

Luckily, it seemed the sparks were artificial, as after a couple more jumps the powder stilled. The moment of silence was suddenly shattered when a wall of dark flames leaped up from the dust, surrounding the bed. Coupled with it were the eerie echoes of a woman's shriek. Cayessa cried out and shielded herself with her arms. Kozin, forgetting for a moment that it was all an illusion, quickly grabbed her in a hug with his back turned towards the flames. The heat he expected to scorch him never came.

A soft clearing of the throat made him lift his head. Cayessa was staring at him and gave a slight push against his chest. The witcher quickly released her and backed away.

"Denhard!" Cerro exclaimed fearfully. "What's happened to him?"

"He is fine, Your Majesty," Kozin said, knowing his words would seem ridiculous in the presence of this towering wall of dark purple fire. "This is the spirit's energy in visible form." He turned to the wall and addressed, "Spirit, who are you?"

There was a heavy pause, and then the flames flickered to the syllables of a warped female voice that replied, "I am one who was left to die and now seek retribution."

"Retribution on whom?"

"Cerro, Queen of Redania."

Kozin glanced at the queen. He was impressed to see not an ounce of fear on the woman's face, though her eyes were grave. "Then why have you attacked her son?"

"I was left in the snow on the outskirts of Tretogor with my newborn, too weak to make it into the city. A carriage came by—the last salvation for my child. Riding inside was the queen, and instead of showing compassion she left us to die." The flames began to shrink as though flickering on a dying wick. In contrast, the voice grew louder. "She sentenced my child to death, and on my dying breath I vowed to pay her back in kind!" With that, the flames went out and the voice vanished.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Oswald was the first to break it in a quiet voice. "So it's true," the mage said. "The woman on the hill was indeed a witch and she has cursed Her Majesty with her foulness."

Cayessa looked irate. Kozin turned to Cerro and asked, "Is this true? Did you encounter a woman outside of Tretogor?"

"My carriage window was closed the entire journey," Cerro answered firmly. "I knew of no such woman until the carriage driver told me upon returning to the castle. He told me a vagabond had attempted to approach—to beg for coin, the driver assumed, so he sped on."

Kozin wasn't sure if he could believe her. The queen's face was stony and unreadable. Perhaps she was telling the truth… or perhaps she was shirking responsibility. At this point, it hardly mattered to him.

"So she has aimed her plague at my Denhard for what she believes I have done. What will appease her, then?" Cerro looked troubled. "The mother has perished, and likely her babe as well. What am I to do then? Let her take my son?"

"Your Highness," Cayessa said. "I have heard of a band of traveling elves having recently taken up a half-elf child from near here. They told me they'd pulled her from the frozen arms of her mother."

"The child is half-elf?" Cerro repeated. She turned away. The light from the window illuminated her pale, fair face. "Though I detest the mother for hurting my son, I understand her anguish. Had our fates been reversed, perhaps I would do the same. I see what I must do—not only to save my son, but as an act of repentance. Where is this child now? Will the elves give her into my care?"

"I'm sure they will once they have heard Her Highness's story," Cayessa replied. "I'm sure they've not gone far because of the snow, but I will need the witcher's help in tracking them." She glanced at Kozin.

They left Tretogor together. Instead of setting off to track a band of made-up elves, they quickly snuck back into Cayessa's tower. There, close to the crackling hearth was the sleeping child. At the sight of her, Cayessa paused. Gently, she scooped up the babe without waking her and gently nestled her against her chest. "Is it funny," she asked, "that after all we've done, I suddenly don't want to give her up?"

"Cay—."

"I'm not about to do anything irrational," Cayessa said. "It was just an impulse. She'll be much happier with the queen. She'll have brothers. That stupid asshat of a mage—." The sorceress quickly covered her mouth and looked down at the child.

"She's not about to start mouthing off like a sailor."

"But she'll remember!" Cayessa gently rocked the babe. "I hope she remembers me… but she probably won't. She's much too young. I'll remember her, though. She was my first and only chance to be a mother." The sorceress lowered herself in front of the fire, still rocking the child.

Kozin sat down next to her and wrapped an arm around her. "You never know," he said. "Some day, when I'm an old witcher on the verge of retiring, I might invoke the Law of Surprise. Been avoiding that like the devil, especially now with no keep to bring them back to."

"The Law of Surprise? Just for me?" Cayessa nestled against the witcher's side. "You big brute." She heaved a sigh. "Is it time to go?"

"Tracking is going to take a day or two," Kozin said. "These elves are very spritely on their feet, even through the snow. And even when we catch up to them, it'll take some convincing before they hand over the bairn. They've got a lass among them, you see, who's taken a real liking to the wee thing. A real cheeky minx, that lass—got a mouth on her."

"Shut up." Even without looking, Kozin could tell she was smiling.

A few days later, the witcher and sorceress returned to Tregotor with the child. Already the story of the dastardly she-elf witch that had cursed Queen Cerro circulated among men. Instead of correcting them, Cayessa remained silent. They passed the babe onto Cerro, whose eyes immediately softened with motherly affection at the sight of the child.

Before leaving, Kozin had turned to Oswald and said, "If she's connected, she'll need a mage to teach her. I've got no doubts about your knowledge, mate. You better teach her everything you know, except how to be like you." Oswald looked flabbergasted and, of course, offended, but Kozin had left too soon for him to come up with a retort.

The day after the child came into the queen's care, Denhard opened his eyes. The illness that had plagued him seemed to have passed.

On Yule there was a blizzard. Snow rained down in thick sheets, given ferocity by the howling wind. It covered the window in thick ice, but otherwise could not penetrate the cozy interior of the tower. Inside, the air was warm and perfumed by the fragrances of baking bread and simmering soup. A witcher's pair of swords leaned on the wall by the door. A couple reclined by the fire, content to wait out the blizzard.

Tretogor was behind them, but a topic remained on the witcher's mind. It was now that he finally brought it up. "You never told me about your father."

"What?"

"Lord Caden—great uncle to King Vridank."

Cayessa sighed. With her cheek still pressed against the witcher's chest, she reached up and played with a crease in his tunic. "I have very few memories of my pre-Vintrican childhood, and I'm not too fond of what I do remember. Besides, why does it matter? I'm a completely different woman to the one they say was married off to some lord somewhere." She tilted her face up to him, a wicked twinkle in her eye. "I got the shorter end of the straw and ended up with some big, dumb witcher instead."

Kozin suddenly pushed her down onto her back. The sorceress squealed as he hovered over her, hands planted on either side of her. "Shorter end, huh?"

Despite her giggling, the sorceress cried out, "Stop!" Kozin lifted himself as the sorceress sat up. "The bread is going to burn," she scolded. But as she rose to her feet to check on the oven, Kozin saw that playful wiggle of her hips which told him things were far from over.

For now, it was a refuge from a mutant's life. Kozin knew he had until the snow melted, but that wouldn't be for a while. The swirling storm outside would make sure of that.

And then, several years later, a blond witcher with a Bear head medallion around his neck headed up north to the city of Orchyn to answer a distress call.

* * *

 _Your baby blues so full of wonder_

 _Your curly cues, your contagious smile_

 _As I watch you start to grow up_

 _All I can do is hold you tight_

 _Knowing clouds will rise up_

 _Storms will race in_

 _But you will be safe in my arms_

"In My Arms"—Plumb


	70. Chapter 70 - The Happenings in Orchyn

_**A/N: New cover is up of Oslan as he is in more recent-ish times (story-wise). He was also the very first custom cover for this story. We've come full circle now.**_

 _ **(Not so) Fun fact: this cover was drawn exactly a year ago. I thought I would reach this point of the story a year ago. Oh, past me. You idiot.**_

* * *

He didn't know what to expect behind the walls of the city—all he knew was that it had been a bad sign that no one knew exactly what happened within Orchyn before it went silent. A very bad sign.

What made it worse was when he learned that Orchyn had, for several years prior, been rife with mage activity. Sorceresses, the authorities of a neighboring city had told him, were for decades performing some sort of experiments. Of what, no one from outside the city ever knew. What happened in Orchyn was kept a secret and ignored by the outside world until one day carriages stopped coming from the city and no one could get in.

As Oslan listened, he grew wary. By now he'd his fair share of encounters with them to know that not all sorceresses were like Theila. Too many of those lessons had been learned the hard way.

He had been in Lan Exetor for a stray job or two when the topic of Orchyn finally reached his ears. The city wasn't too far west from the capital—maybe two or three days' worth on horseback. Lan Exetor was the first to notice the sudden lack of activity from its neighboring city, though the castellan admitted to Oslan that the silence could have started up to a month before any of them even noticed the signs.

"And what first tipped you off?" Oslan asked.

"Lan Exetor and Orchyn have had a long-standing grain subsidization agreement," the castellan answered, and Oslan almost yawned. "I won't delve into the details of the contract, but the gist of it is that should one city find itself with a crop shortage for whatever reason, the other will support it by sending over supplies of food—not just grain, you know. That's just the formal title the agreement was made under. A few weeks ago, we received a message from Orchyn claiming they had reached such a shortage and was calling upon our contractual obligation. As usual, we sent officials over to verify that their claims were true. They returned puzzled. Told us that the city gates were shut and no one was there to greet them."

A closed city gate was never a good thing. Such an event was only reserved for times of siege or miscellaneous disasters, and Oslan couldn't think of what kind might have struck Orchyn.

"Did they try to get in?"

"A closed gate, along with being a very daunting physical barrier, relays a very clear message," the castellan replied. "And being government officials—no, of course they didn't try to break into Orchyn. But after returning and informing us of what they saw, we sent a larger party. Predominately soldiers, in case there was trouble we didn't know about. This time, however, they couldn't even get near the gates. The entire city was trapped in a bubble."

Oslan blinked. He didn't remember dozing off, but there was no way he actually heard that coming out of the castellan's mouth. "A… apologies, a what?"

"Indeed I found myself with the same kind of reaction when I was met with the news," the castellan said. "And had I not ventured out and seen it for myself, I would still find trouble believing it."

He was used to starting contracts with a million questions still left unanswered in his head, but this was still a first. And Oslan knew that the biggest question was always the reason his client had hired him. "So you want me to find out why Orchyn is in a bubble?"

"Yes," the castellan answered curtly. "There are several who suspect this to be the work of those sorceresses. I have dreadful assumptions of what became of the citizens trapped inside that city."

"Sorceresses? Hold on—let's start from the beginning here."

It was then the castellan told Oslan all he knew of the going-ons of Orchyn. It was hardly much to go on, and only served to raise more questions that the witcher knew would never be answered in Lan Exetor. But when he heard about the sorceresses, he knew where to start. After securing the contract with the castellan, Oslan left the stronghold and returned to the streets.

It would be his first time seeing the school of sorcery he had heard so much about. He had always been curious, but at the same time he was dreading the trip. Not only did he have to bring up Orchyn, he was nervous about running into Theila. Since Undevar's funeral, Oslan had lost touch with her. If that weren't the case with Andryk and Kozin, a face-to-face would fast become awkward.

Nevertheless, he had a contract to fulfill, and there was no time to let personal qualms get in the way. Oslan was given the address of a Vintrican representative that was posted in Lan Exetor. Directions to the address led the witcher to the very border of the city, where he found a small building with a single door and no windows.

Oslan paused by the door. It was framed by several signs, one of which read: "Embassy of Vintrica—Official Business Only." The other signs were in various different languages, all of which Oslan presumed held the same message. He held onto his uncertainty for a second longer before opening and stepping through the door.

The interior of the building smelled strongly of roses, though Oslan's sharp senses caught the undertones of wine and the echoes of a meal consumed earlier in the day. Despite having no windows, the tall room was lit by a wide crystal chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling. Various paintings of women hung around the walls, interspersed between shelves that held statuettes and decorative crystals. Oslan looked down, realizing that the carpeting below his boots had the large Vintrican emblem of a dragon over mountains patterned into it.

"Name?" a voice requested, quickly reminding Oslan that he had come here for a reason other than taking in the sights. A woman sitting behind a wide, U-shaped desk had asked the question. She had a hand poised expectantly over the large, book propped up on its stand.

"Oslan," the witcher answered, and then added, "of An Skellig."

The woman touched the book, opened to its first page, and it immediately flipped itself through each and every one. They moved so quickly and seamlessly that they formed a light tan arch and through up wind that gently rustled the woman's light brown hair. Finally, after a few more seconds, the book reached its final page and shut its back cover with a soft thump.

"You're not in here. Oslan, was it? O-S-L-A-N? Was that the name you used when making your appointment?"

"Oh… no, I don't have an appointment. I—." The witcher stopped mid-sentence as he saw the book reopened itself to a page that Oslan saw was half-full with small writing that even he had trouble reading.

"Oslan of An Skellig," the woman repeated. The large-plumed quill hopped up from its stand, dipped its head in a nearby inkwell, and began writing on the page with mechanical precision. "Explain the nature of your request, please, as best as you are able to. Ailment, fertility, curse removal?"

"I… I'm looking for…"

"Theila?" the sorceress quickly guessed.

Oslan paused. "No… not exactly… why do you think that?"

"Oh, it's as sure as fact by now—if there's a Bear, he's here for Theila." The woman motioned a hand towards Oslan's medallion. "Well, if you're not here for her, then who are you looking for?"

"I'm not looking for anyone in particular," Oslan admitted. "I'm here on behalf of the Lan Exetor castellan—."

He was cut off by the sorceress's soft groan. Her lashes fluttered as she gave a roll of her eyes. "Should have guessed when a witcher walked in," she muttered. "Did the castellan not tell you that the dragon immunity treaty is still in effect for another two weeks?"

"I'm here about Orchyn."

The sorceress's eyes suddenly hardened. Oslan felt the tension quickly enter the air like a chilly ocean breeze. However, it was abruptly interrupted when the sorceress looked down and nonchalantly flipped the book back over.

"The matters at Orchyn are strictly Vintrican business," she replied, her voice losing its hospitable tone. "The castellan need only concern himself over his own jurisdiction. In a day or two, the headmistress will visit Lan Exetor to give personal assurance that there is no danger to the castellan or his capital."

Oslan wasn't going to let himself be shooed off so easily. He remained in his spot, eyes still glued on the sorceress, until she continued, "If you need something to return to the castellan with, tell him what I have told you and that you were simply unwilling to wade through such pointless bureaucratic sludge."

"Is that what you think witchers are like with their clients?"

"From the ones I've met in the past, yes," the sorceress responded simply.

Quickly, Oslan raced over his options. He wouldn't try to get his information or access to Vintrica by force—that spoke of immeasurable stupidity. Not to mention the bridges it would burn and that he'd likely get his arsed kicked for just trying.

Axii on a sorceress was also beyond foolish. A witcher's magic to a fully trained mage probably felt akin to a giant being accosted by a toothpick. But, Oslan thought as he tried not to imagine his brothers laughing, perhaps there was a more civil way.

"Just spare me a second to hear me out, Lady…?" Oslan began.

"No," the sorceress quickly cut in. "I've been in this city—sat in a building open to the public—for long enough to see all manners of attempted seduction. Or what men consider to be seduction. I think we've said all we needed to… Oslan, was it? I'll kindly ask you to see yourself out."

"I need to get into Orchyn," Oslan spluttered. The words fell out even before he had a chance to think about what he was saying. "To see if she's okay."

The sorceress's icy demeanor thawed just a little. "Pardon?"

"I took this contract," Oslan said slowly, his mind a whirlwind as he tried to make his spontaneous lie seem anything but, "because I've a friend in Orchyn."

"Oh?" The sorceress sounded skeptical. "And what's their name?"

"Arda."

He didn't know where it had come from. Like a monster's claws he had failed to be wary of, it had lashed out from out of the blue and left a deep, bleeding rip before he had a chance to catch his breath.

The sorceress was watching him carefully. At the spoken name, her eyes softened at what they saw in the witcher's. "More than just a friend, I can tell."

"Just a friend," Oslan insisted.

The sorceress sighed, leaning back in her seat. "I don't want to be the bad person here, Oslan," she said, "but I'm in a tight spot. The headmistress would already consider flaying me alive for what I've told you so far, and I'd be packing my things and hitting the road if I let you into the school."

"I understand," Oslan replied, "but—."

The sorceress held up a finger. "But," she continued, "there's a team of sorceresses attempting to get into Orchyn now as we speak. If you were to… say, go to the city's edge and encounter this team… _maybe_ find a way to get into Orchyn with or without their knowledge… there's nothing I can do about that, is there?"

"No," Oslan answered, reading into her cryptic tone, "there isn't."

"Well," the sorceress said as she reached below the desk and took out a wine glass. A half-empty bottle followed it. "Off you go then. Sorry I couldn't help you."

"That's no problem," Oslan replied, turning and heading for the exit. "I'll find a way."

"Oslan." The witcher stopped, a hand on the door. "This Arda… once you find her, maybe you should tell her how you feel. Their lives are far too short to let things go unspoken."

He listened to the sound of wine pouring and only said, "They are, aren't they?"

* * *

Half a day's arguing, and she was surprised that she wasn't bedridden with a migraine yet. Had it not been for this jackass of a captain and his troublesome men, she was sure they would have been able to breach the shield and get into the city by now.

Sabina and her team had been sent by Headmistress Gloria to try and locate the researchers within Orchyn after the city had gone dark. What they found upon arriving at the outskirts was concerning.

The shield that had been cast around Orchyn was a powerful one, and Sabina wasn't sure if it had been the researchers or someone else that'd summoned it. It blocked all means of magic—no one could teleport in and megascopes could never pick up any of the ones inside.

Most concerning of all, Sabina had found once they arrived, was that the shield was also airtight. Orchyn held a population of thousands—which meant that time was ticking for those inside. They had immediately set to work trying to poke an entrance into the translucent shell, but its unwillingness to yield had slowed their progress.

And then men from Lan Exetor had arrived. They halted the sorceresses under threat of arrest, and Sabina could tell the captain still held the idea of jailing them at the forefront of his mind. She was well aware that he thought her team and the clandestine researchers in Orchyn the same. And that was far from the truth, though Sabina knew convincing him otherwise was a losing battle—the happenings in Orchyn had been extremely confidential and strictly on a need-to-know basis. Indeed, a majority of Vintrica's inhabitants hadn't been aware of Orchyn until now. Sabina had been part of that majority, only sent now to assess the damage. She didn't know what she'd find in this city, but everything she had seen so far told her Vintrica would not get out of this lightly. This made the incident with the baron's son all those years ago seem like a silly little 'my bad.'

But that was all _if_ they were ever to make it into the city. So far the captain had been nothing but a walking headache, and the team's progress on the shield was at a gridlock. Sabina had been going back and forth with the man for nearly half a day now, their arguments interspersed with breaks when the two of them became too furious to get words out.

She suspected the captain was too afraid to put his threats to action, being a man with limited exposure to mages. He probably thought he'd be zapped into a toad if he lifted a finger. To be honest, Sabina wasn't too adverse to the idea.

How she longed to use a bit of magic just to sway the arguments to her favor a little, but no—she knew Gloria's stance on that kind of magic usage. "Protect Vintrica's integrity above all else" was what the headmistress stood by. It was just _so_ tiring when people held full control of their own stupidity.

With that, the witcher's arrival came as a blessing.

Sabina was first alerted when she heard of the ruckus of men outside. Irate, she wondered if the captain and his men had started harassing her sorceresses and stormed out of her tent to confront them. Instead, she found a row of guards standing at the ready. A lone man stood on the open ground where their swords were pointed.

A man with two hilts over his shoulder and eyes like a cat's. Sabina perched a hand on her hip and strolled past the tense men.

"Halt!" one of them shouted to her, but she ignored him. She wasn't about to let _them_ tell her what to do. The witcher's eyes immediately snapped to Sabina as she stepped calmly up to him.

"Maybe you can help me," she said to him. The witcher was on the verge of getting his question out when the firm order of, "Men, stand down!" rang through the air and the guards parted to let their captain through. The man's suspicious eyes surveyed the witcher for a second before turning to Sabina. "You called for backup?" he accused.

"No," Sabina replied, crossing her arms. "I'm as surprised at this new arrival as you are. Don't go throwing accusations around, Captain, unless you want to be three inches tall and covered in warts."

The captain scowled, but left the conversation at that. He turned back to the witcher. "Move along, mutant," he snapped. "These matters do not concern you."

"Your castellan sent me," the witcher responded simply, his tone blunt. Sabina was starting to like this man.

"For what purpose?" The captain threw a gauntlet-clad arm back to the tents and soldiers scattered just outside the city's shield. "We have this under control."

"No you don't," Sabina shot back, her arms still crossed. "And you won't ever have this situation under control unless you let my team and me get back to work!"

"Do not forget, witch, that it was your people that started this mess!"

"What did I say about accusations?"

"Enough!" the witcher snapped. "Has anyone been able to get _inside_ the city?"

Sabina and the captain fell silent at the witcher's harsh bark, and then Sabina quietly answered. "No. The headmistress sent us to find a way to bypass the shield and enter the city. Before we were—." She shot the captain a look. _"Interrupted_ , we were very close to being able to open a small hole."

"Then enough of this bickering," the witcher said, looking between the two. "Save that for after we find out what happened to Orchyn."

"We?" Sabina repeated. "My team has informed me that the puncture would only be sustained for a very short while—long enough for one person to get through. Maybe two if they're willing to risk losing a limb."

"Then I'll send in my second-in-command," the captain spoke up. "I trust no one else to enter that city."

"Hang on," Sabina seethed. "We aren't opening the shield for _you."_

"And I will not be foolish enough to allow one more sorceress into Orchyn!"

"Then we won't open the shield at all!" Sabina cried hotly, though in the back of her mind she knew she'd have to get that report to Gloria eventually. Still, she refused to let the captain or any of his men reap the benefits of her team's hard work. "Send the witcher in, then!"

The captain hesitated at her outburst. "The witcher?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes. Him." Sabina jerked her head towards the man standing next to her.

"But—."

"Why are you even objecting? Your castellan employed him! If anything, he'll do everything you and your lord want him to do! That's the only way he's getting paid!"

The witcher's eyes had been skimming the horizon. "Looks like rain," he noted. "Wouldn't be surprised if the downpour reached here in a day or two." His cat eyes then looked to the flimsy tents that shuddered from even the slightest passing breeze.

At that, the captain was convinced, and finally his resistance dropped. He told the witcher to show him the contract. A folded piece of paper was presented. After scrutinizing the castellan's seal and signature, the captain finally returned the contract with a nod. "Don't let the castellan down," he stated before he turned and headed back to the tents, his men following close behind him.

Finally, when it was just Sabina and the witcher, she turned to him and said, "Let me know when you're ready. I think my team is prepared to make the puncture. Oh, and witcher," she continued when the man had nodded his agreement. "When you find out what's happened inside Orchyn, do let me be the first to know before you tell the captain. Just in case…" Her train of thought faltered when her eyes fell down to his medallion—a Bear.

"Just in case Vintrica really is at fault," the witcher finished.

Sabina's eyes flitted back up to his. "You wouldn't want to put that kind of heat on Theila, now would you?"

The witcher's face remained stony, but he answered, "No, I suppose I wouldn't."

"Very good," Sabina replied. "Now listen to me—once you're inside, we won't be able to reach you at all. Not even with telemancy. Nothing's getting through that shield. It's quite literally airtight."

"Then how am I supposed to get back out?"

"Hopefully the solution will be inside. The sorceresses who were stationed in Orchyn should still be in there. Although…" A disturbing thought quickly flashed Sabina's mind, though she quickly fought it down. "Puncturing through the shield will take every single member of my team's combined efforts, and it'll likely deplete us all. Once we let you in, I'd say that it'll take at least a day for us to be restored enough to create an exit."

"I get it," the witcher responded. He glanced at Orchyn, barely visible through the bubble. "Any idea what I'll find in there?"

"No clue," Sabina answered. "I'm just heading the cleanup crew—I wasn't even aware of the happenings in Orchyn while they occurred."

"Cleanup crew," the witcher repeated. "Something tells me your headmistress isn't expecting anything pretty." He glanced back out towards the distance. "I wasn't kidding about the rain, by the way. I think I've prepared all I can. Get me into the city."

By the time the five of them were lined up around the shield, Sabina wasn't the least bit surprised to feel the shield's resistance pushing against their magic. It fought and fought like a sentient creature, whittling away the sorceresses' strength. It was only when they were all on the brink of exhaustion that Sabina saw the small area of the shield thin until it gave away, letting air on either side touch for the first time in a while. She shouted for the witcher to go. He sprang into the hole. Right as his second heel passed through, the puncture closed and the sorceresses stumbled back, using the last of their strength to keep themselves from falling over.

Sabina could barely see the witcher even though he stood just beyond the shield. Movement told her he had swiveled his shoulders to look back at her. And then his form shrank as he headed towards the city.

* * *

Silence. That was all he heard. It was almost surreal. Normally he could just hear the bustling of civilization while at the cusp of a city—hoof beats and footsteps and distance chatter. There was none of that here. Nothing could be heard inside Orchyn. Just silence.

And then, as Oslan approached the city walls, there was that strange smell. It was faint, but he caught it wafting through the stale, trapped air. It was an odd odor—out of place, namely because it smelled like the underside of a wet rock.

Just as the castellan had told him, the city gates were closed. They were massive and sturdy, and Oslan knew he wasn't going to get them open before he even reached them. But, stopping in front of the walls themselves, he reached out and touched the textured stone. It wasn't the best climbing face he'd encountered, but it was all he had to work with.

Oslan turned away from the wall. He unclasped his gauntlets and pulled them off. He secured them inside his belt and opened a small pouch that was strapped to his midsection. A handful of the white, powdery contents was taken out. Clapping his hands together, the witcher coated his fingers and palms with the chalky substance. He turned back to the walls and felt for grooves deep enough to hold onto. Looking down, he searched for footholds and, once he did, began scaling the wall.

Oslan found himself having to move in a zigzag pattern up the wall, following where the stone was the most ridged. As he neared the top, that strange smell grew. And when he reached it, the stench barreled into him like a harsh gust of wind. Oslan let out a small cough, taking his next breath with his arm pressed over his nose.

From the top of the wall, he surveyed the innards of the city. The high buildings kept him from seeing much, but he was able to spot glimpses of the streets leading into the heart of Orchyn. And then, as he watched, the most bizarre thing happened.

Oslan first felt it ripple through the air, grazing over his skin like the rough hide of a beast. It was almost as if the city was the beast itself, and the witcher's arrival had stirred it from its slumber. The silence was broken by shuffling, movement, and footsteps—the sounds of civilization. It would have seemed normal had it not followed the dead, absolute stillness.

He remained on the wall for a little longer, watching and listening. That strange, pungent smell was slowly being masked by other scents dredged up by the sudden activity. People walked in and out of buildings, bustled up and down the streets, bumped into and spoke with each other. Oslan heard vendors shouting to peddle their wares and mothers telling their children to behave.

A voice suddenly called out from below. "Ho there, man! What are you doing perched all the way up there like an alley cat?" Oslan looked down and saw a man standing below, his head craned all the way back to look at the witcher. His uniform spoke of a town guardsman.

"City gates were closed," Oslan replied simply.

"Aye," the guard replied. "Don't suppose you're trying to get out, are you?"

"I came _in,"_ Oslan clarified. "Lan Exetor's castellan sent me."

"In? You don't say?" The guard motioned upward, and Oslan knew he was referring to the bubble that covered the sky. "And how'd you get past that?"

"I found a way," the witcher answered vaguely, not wanting to have to explain the work of sorceresses to a town guard. He lowered himself over the edge and slowly descended. He could still hear the guard's beating heart from down below. "Strange that everyone's acting so normal when the city's trapped," Oslan remarked as he climbed down the wall.

"Panic wouldn't help anyone," the guard replied. "People know that."

"People don't work like that," Oslan stated. The ground neared.

"And how would you know?" Yet here was another man thinking witchers were entirely disconnected from humans. Oslan would have to wait until he was out of earshot to get his sigh of frustration out.

"Let's just say I've seen my fair share," Oslan replied. "Any creature with no experience in a cage will resist when put in one." Finally, his boots touched stable ground. Oslan turned.

"Really?" the guard said. His fascinated tone put Oslan out of ease. But he ignored the goose bumps. He'd come here with a mission.

"This bubble," Oslan said, gesturing up as the guard had done. "Where did it come from?"

"The sorceresses."

The answer was unexpectedly straightforward. To be honest, Oslan had expected to be directed to someone else. Or for the guard to suddenly become cagey. "Sorceresses," he repeated. "Which ones?"

"There have been a couple that stayed in Orchyn for quite some time. Years." The guard stepped aside and lifted an arm towards the middle of the city. His finger pointed above the nearest rooftops to a tower that jutted up into the air. "Stayed in that there building. Very secretive, them. Then, one day…" The guard trailed off and gestured towards the sky.

"Did they ever give a reason?"

"Blackmail." Quickly, the guard added, "I heard. Were trying to get something out of Orchyn's mayor, and when they were refused they resorted to this. Everyone's determined to wait it out, but…" The guard shrugged. "Maybe it's a good thing you got in, witcher. Maybe you can sort them out."

"They're still in the city?" That, Oslan found odd. "And are they in the tower now?"

"Aye, but you'll not be able to get in. We've had a couple guardsmen try—spells killed them on the spot."

With his eyes still glued to the tower in the distance, Oslan put out a reassuring hand. "Dealing with magic is part of my profession." Though the thought of going up against a number of sorceresses that seemed to have gone rogue made him anxious. "I'll see what I can do. Let me ask around first. Any leads I should follow?"

"Ask around? You mean the other townsfolk?"

Oslan glanced back at the guard, his face growing quizzical. "Yes… why?"

"Nothing," the man replied. "Well, good luck."

But Oslan had not taken his eyes from the man's face. There was… there was something… "What's that?" he demanded. "Are you okay?"

"What…?" The guard suddenly brought a hand up to wipe the underside of his nose. He glanced down at the black that coated his glove and quickly lowered it. "Nothing to be worrying about," he assured. "Not been feeling well is all. It'll pass."

Oslan's nose wrinkled. That smell. But there were more important matters to focus on. If he didn't work fast enough, he'd suffocate with the rest of the city. Or he'd be torn apart by the magic of angry sorceresses. "Right," he said to the guard, "I'd appreciate if you kept me being here on the down-low."

The guard had wiped his nose again. "So," he said, "you'll free us?"

"I'm here in this city with you," Oslan replied. "Not to keen on staying here for the rest of my life."

"Fair enough."

"Where is the mayor? I'd like to talk with him before I get anywhere near these sorceresses."

"At this hour? Home, likely." The guard pointed Oslan in the right direction, and the witcher set off. The mayor's house wasn't at all hard to find—given that aside from town hall and the sorceresses' tower, it was the largest structure in Orchyn.

As he neared the house, that strange thing happened again—the interior of the house was completely silent. And then, right as he reached the porch, Oslan heard activity spring up inside. He reached the door and gave it a few knocks. Following shortly after were the footsteps of someone coming to the door. As he waited, Oslan glanced over his shoulder at the tower in the distance. Then the door opened and he turned back.

Oslan froze.

Her long black hair fell down either side of her round face and billowed around her shoulders. Oslan didn't realize he was staring until she tentatively asked, "Are you okay?"

The terrified look quickly dropped from the witcher's face. "I'm… um, I'm looking for Mayor Asler."

"Oh," the girl replied softly. She paused, and then turned. "Papa," Oslan heard her call out, "someone's here for you."

"Who?" came a voice from within.

"A witcher."

"Ah," the mayor responded. "Well bring him in, then."

The girl turned back to Oslan and stepped aside to let him through. The witcher gave her a nod and stepped through the threshold. That stench—whatever it was—was strong in here. Oslan stifled back a choke, not wanting to insult his new hosts. However, he couldn't stop himself from wrinkling his nose. Quickly, he smoothed his face out, but the girl had caught him.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"No," Oslan answered abruptly. He looked back at the girl. It was like staring into the sun. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Kyra."

"Thank you, Kyra. And…" He diverted his eyes, looking around the empty foyer. "Where is your father?"

"In the living room. Follow me." The girl brought him through the foyer and past a set of double doors. Elegant finishes of polished wood followed them, and expensive carpeting muffled the sounds of the witcher's usually heavy steps. Out of the corner of his eye, Oslan noticed that servants were opening windows.

A fire crackled within the hearth of the living room. The mayor stood from his armchair as Oslan and Kyra walked in. The witcher took the mayor's outstretched hand, giving a quick glance to another servant lighting a candle on a table nearby.

"Sit, Oslan," the mayor's loud voice commanded. Oslan obeyed, taking a seat by the fireplace. He noticed with curiosity that Kyra and her father took their seats a good distance from him—nearly the other side of the living room. Well, it was a trepidation he wasn't unfamiliar with. He waited for his hosts to start the conversation.

"Oslan," Asler said. "I'd like to be frank with you: for the good of this city, I need you to get those sorceresses to release this city. Kill them if you must."

The witcher paused, trying to choose the words to his response carefully. "I'd like to get a full picture before I draw any blood. Tell me what happened leading up to the placement of the bubble. I've heard that the sorceresses asked you for something—what was it?"

"What people always ask for, Oslan. The thing that drives them down the dark and dirty path: money. They were undergoing some clandestine research, you see, for an unknown client. They were promised a good amount, I'd imagine, and wanted to try and squeeze out some more. Told—not there!" the mayor suddenly snapped. A servant had lit another candle on the table next to Kyra. "Move that someplace else!" Quickly, the servant snatched the candle up, looking nervous. Oslan saw how the bulb of flame wiggled as the servant's hands trembled. Then, the mayor turned back to Oslan. "—Told me they would wreck havoc on the city if I didn't give in. What they were demanding from me was utterly ridiculous. I refused to give in. Now look what they've done to my Orchyn."

'Varnished oak finish all around a house bigger than any in the city, and yet you still refused to pay ransom for your beloved Orchyn,' Oslan thought. He leaned back. The fragrant oils being burned from the candles perfumed the air, pushing out that odd odor. Aloud, he said, "So they trapped the city and hid away in their tower?"

"Yes. Not a single person has been able to get in it. Explosives are no use either."

"That's odd. They've trapped themselves in here with you."

To that, the mayor shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in the heads of those witches? Perhaps they fear the wrath of their client should they leave."

"Then they're living on borrowed time." Things just didn't sit right with Oslan. "What I really want to know is what kind of research they were doing here. You don't know _anything_ about it? No one here does?"

"No, I'm afraid not. They kept things very watertight."

"There is," Kyra suddenly spoke up, "a second laboratory here within the city—long abandoned since the sorceresses went into hiding. It's unguarded."

Oslan blinked, and then leaned forward to rest his elbows onto his knees. "Interesting," he remarked. "That's a jackpot if anything."

"It's just full of equipment that won't work. We've had investigators go over everything."

'They all run on magic,' Oslan thought, not ready to share this information. He wanted to a chance to go over the laboratory on his own. "Still, I'd like to take a look. As good a lead as any." He gave a quick a glance to the mayor, who had grown quiet. Odd that he had let his daughter take over the conversation so complacently. "Where is it?"

"I can take you," Kyra offered. Oslan hesitated until the mayor nodded.

"Er… sure. Thanks."

Oslan was still a little confused by the time he stepped out of the manor with Kyra. He had never had an exchange quite like that, and he still wasn't quite sure what had happened. For some reason, the memory of the servant lighting the candle next to the girl stuck out to him. He remembered how terrified the servant had looked—almost as if she had been afraid of the very candle she was holding.

"Oslan," Kyra suddenly said as they walked. "When you first saw me at the door, you looked sad. Why was that?"

Oh no. Had he really? This wasn't a box he wanted to open. "I've had a long day is all," he replied.

He was met with blissful silence for only a few seconds, and then Kyra continued, "Were you remembering something?"

Oslan sighed. "I don't really want to talk about it," he said, letting his voice grow gruff. It did the trick, and Kyra's questioning stopped. She led him down a few more blocks, and then pointed out the spare laboratory as they approached. It was a one-story building with a flat roof. The windows all had their blinds closed. As they neared, Oslan saw a sign tacked to the door that read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. TRESPASSERS NOT WELCOMED. A smaller version of the Vintrican seal had been burned into the door.

"Real friendly," Oslan remarked, turning the handle and letting the door open. The interior of the building was dim. He could still catch the remarkably faint scent of perfume. But in the foreground was that horrid, pond-like stench. Now that he was out of the mayor's home, Oslan let himself cough in disgust.

"What is it?" Kyra asked.

"Don't you smell it? That stench—it's all over the city."

"No." Oslan glanced at Kyra, and she glanced back innocently. "What does it smell like?"

"I don't know. It's like… something wet and mossy."

"Maybe it was something the sorceresses left in here," Kyra suggested.

"Maybe," Oslan agreed, stepping into the laboratory. There wasn't much to look at in this front room—just a bit of furniture. He glanced at the corridor to his left. The doors down there looked promising. "I can take it from here, Kyra. Go home."

"I can stay," Kyra objected. "You know… just in case."

"It could still be dangerous."

"It's not. This place is completely abandoned."

The stubborn look that had crossed the girl's face looked painfully familiar, and for a heartbreaking moment another similar face was superimposed over Kyra's. Oslan quickly looked away, sighing heavily. "Fine," he relented. "Follow me." He headed for the corridor. Kyra's steps padded softly behind him.

Oslan stopped at the first door. This one was already ajar. Behind it was a series of equipment—all the kinds a mage would used, judging by the complex designs and looping machinery that would baffle a mortal scientist. Oslan pushed the door open wider and stepped in. He noticed the candle sconces lining the walls around the room. With a flick of his hand, the room was suddenly illuminated.

He heard a screech behind him and whirled around just in time to see Kyra shying away from the sconce she had been standing close to. She had her hands pressed over her ears. Her eyes met Oslan's, and her hands lowered. "Sorry," she apologized breathlessly. "I just wasn't expecting that."

"It's fine. I didn't mean to startle you," Oslan replied, turning to scan the room. He stepped over to the nearest instruments, trying to discern what they had been used for. Not a trace lingered on them. "Don't touch anything," he warned to Kyra as he walked to the next equipment.

"I won't."

Oslan gave the instrument a light tap. A dustless imprint where his finger had touched it appeared on the sleek surface. "Hmm," he remarked.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. There's nothing here. Let's move on."

"Okay."

The room next door yielded similar results—another room full of dusty old equipment. The only difference here was the bookshelf. It held rows of books and journals, with bird skulls and pewter gargoyle statuettes used as bookends. Oslan gave the instruments a careless glance before heading over to the bookshelf. He hooked his finger over the spine of the nearest book and pulled it out.

Skimming over the cover and the first few pages told Oslan that it was a text on fungi. A ribbon peeked out from deeper within the pages. Flipping to it, he realized that the chapter on reproduction had been bookmarked. A few pages in, the word "spores" had been written in the margins and several sentences had been underlined. 'Something about airborne spores,' Oslan noted. He shut the book, placed it back, and took out another one.

This one was on a species called the Cordyceps fungus—some sort of mushroom? Apparently it was found only in jungle areas. 'Shouldn't be anywhere near Kovir then.' As he skimmed across more of the text, Oslan began to grow worried. He shut the book, feeling a sudden, urgent need to explore the rest of the laboratory.

"Kyra," he said. "I'm thinking we can divide and conquer here. Do you mind looking over the rest of these books? I'm going to head further in the lab. Just hold on to whatever you think is important and I'll take a look at it later."

"Well," Kyra replied, looking over the rest of the books. She ran a hand lightly over the aligned spines. "I'll try."

"Thanks." He shut the book in his hands and placed it back on the shelf. As Oslan headed out the door, he gave one final glance over his shoulder. He saw her standing there, her black hair falling down her back with a book held open in front of her.

There she was again—that brief glimpse of her. Their lives were indeed too short. Oslan quickly looked away.

He stepped back out into the darkened corridor. His eyes snapped to the door at the very end, and before he knew it he had taken a step towards it. He headed for it and tried the handle. The door was locked. Still gripping the handle, Oslan bashed his shoulder against the door. He felt it shudder in its frame.

Oslan didn't have the time or patience to go looking for a key that he was sure wasn't even in the building. He released the handle as he took a step back. Oslan looked at the room Kyra was in, and then turned back to the door. With a sudden charge, he slammed himself against it. He heard a sharp crack as the lock bolt splintered the frame. Oslan took a step back and rammed against the door again, feeling it give away this time. Chipped shards of wood from the broken frame scattered onto the floor.

Oslan gave his shoulder a few pats as he stepped into the room. It was small and musty, though that strange, pond-like stench was lighter in here. A desk was pushed up against the wall, strewn with papers, a quill, and a dried inkwell. In the center of the room was a megascope. One of the crystals was missing from its stand. Oslan turned his attention to the desk as he stepped over to it. He took a brief moment to look over the papers, pushing them around with a hand. Then, he reached down and opened the topmost drawer.

Inside was a block of red wax and a seal stamp, along with a few spare quills. Reaching lower, Oslan opened the next drawer and found inside it a handful of crystals. He picked one up, turning it this way and that to examine its smooth surface. His head turned to the megascope.

Oslan straightened up. He walked over to the instrument, gave the crystal one last glance, and set it in the empty stand. Stepping back, Oslan muttered the short incantation that activated the megascope—having learned the spell during his travels long ago. The instrument whirred softly to life.

From within the three stands, a gray blur wavered. It expanded into a small, transparent bubble. Within it stood the form of a sorceress. Her eyes remained forward and her face neutral as she spoke.

"The case is unprecedented," she said, and Oslan couldn't help but feel as though he had grabbed one of the middle crystals out of a series. "The first documented patient was brought to our attention and put into official reports in 1098. Said patient was a man in his 20's, found in Gelibol and brought to Orchyn after death.

"After being brought to the city, the body continued to exhibit motor and vocal activity. According to the sorceress who had first treated him, the man had been infected by a unique species of mold that had direct exposure to his brain. Our scans have shown that the mold has fully integrated into the spinal and nervous systems, surrogating the deceased tissue with its own. Tests reveal that the body responds to physical contact and light. It has also been reported that he has been heard uttering broken strings of sentences—mainly gibberish, though I have not heard evidence of this myself.

"As instructed by Headmistress of Gloria, we will continue to study this case."

The recorded message within the crystal ended. Oslan removed it and fetched another from the desk drawer. Gray flickered within the megascope, and the same sorceress reappeared.

"We were informed these spores were only active within water. As a precaution, we have taken extreme measures to keep all research activity away from Orchyn's water sources." The neutral look was suddenly broken by worry. "But we have received several reports of Orchyn citizens experiencing headaches. They're starting to get nosebleeds with black blood. All symptoms identical to the ones documented on the Gelibol patient. We thought… these spores were only supposed to be transmitted through water.

"But, though it seems impossible, they may have grown air—." There suddenly came the background noise of someone coming into the room. The sorceress quickly looked off to the side. Someone was speaking, though the megascope crystal could barely pick up their voice.

"What?" the sorceress demanded. She abruptly waved a hand. "No—keep them outside! We can't—!" Her words and the transmitted message were cut off.

'Those books are starting to make sense now,' Oslan thought as he walked over to take the crystal. 'And nosebleeds with black blood…' He remembered the guard he had been talking to next to the wall.

Oslan had removed the crystal and was prepared to grab another when something in the corner of the room caught his eye. Because of the absent of light and its small size, he would have never seen it had it not been for his enhanced sight.

Trapped in the dusty corner was another megascope crystal. Oslan took it. The small sliver of a crack in its otherwise flawless face told him this one had been dropped. Quickly, the witcher returned to the megascope and placed the crystal in its stand.

The crack caused the image of the sorceress to flicker, though the message projected smoothly.

This time, the sorceress looked horrified. Oslan wasn't sure, but maybe she was even crying. Her voice held no trace of her tears, though it shook as she spoke in a grave tone. "We did everything we could. Tried to stop it. Tried to save them. We couldn't. It was airborne before we even realized it. It's too late. Too late. We have to keep it from spreading—the wind could carry it from here to Lan Exetor. Thousands and thousands of more people.

"This… this _thing_. It's been killing people. We didn't even notice. Not until it was too late. We didn't notice because it _acts_ like them." Her shaking voice rose, growing louder and louder as panic set in her eyes. "To anyone who sees this—nothing can get out of Orchyn! Nothing! Don't let any of them out! They're not people! They're dead! They're all dead!"

The message died, plunging Oslan back into darkness. He heard footsteps, and Kyra's voice came from behind him

"Oslan," she asked. "What are you doing?"

* * *

 _Buried, banging at your door_

 _Don't hear a sound_

 _Don't know me anymore_

 _A bell that tolled to comfort me_

 _An empty street_

 _A rising steam_

"Flesh and Bone"—Black Math

* * *

 _ **Addendum: As I'll be taking a trip out of the country until mid-January, this will be the last update of 2018. What a year it's been for this story, for me, and I'm sure for you too. Thank you so much for following this story with me, and an especially big thank you to those who have left feedback or reached out to me. Also, thanks for your patience, as I know updates have been especially slow this year.**_

 _ **Here's to a bigger and better 2019. Maybe it'll be the year this story actually ACTUALLY gets completed. Cheers, everyone.**_


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